The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 3

Part 2

20th November 1967

Oh my God, what am I to do?! I cannot believe it, I am still in shock. My hand shakes as I write these words. In the pit of my compressed stomach there is a lump. I feel like my worst nightmare has come true and the hell that I live daily has got worse!

It was him. He was at the party. The soiree Daniel called it. He attended this evening gathering in support of his political party and I came with him. I have done it before. It is always horrible. The men paw at me and the women look down at me. Those that can. There are always a couple of dolls there. The number seems to be increasing, like we are becoming more accepted. How can a civilised Christian society ever accept such a thing?

But that is not it. We were there and then he came in through the door, a young lady on his arm. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I welcome the Foreign Secretary.” And it was him. Foreign Secretary. Not a junior minister these days but one of the most important people in the government! “Mr. Hunter! Please come here, Mr. Hunter! Can I get you a drink Mr. Hunter!” They fawned over him like animals and he lapped it up while all the while she just stood there, starstruck, transfixed, doe-eyed and delirious. Like I once was. “This is Chloe Hardwick, a distant cousin of mine,” he said. He used to use the same excuse with me; I was a relative whom he was introducing to society. It all seemed so proper and right; only I knew what a lying snake he was. Yet what can I do? Silenced and masked, trammelled by my clothing, I merely stood and watched, sickened to the pit of my stomach.

But then it got worse. He came over and greeted Daniel, “one of our oldest and most trusted supporters”. And then he turned to me. “And who is this delightful vision of femininity?” he asked. “This is Libby, my ward,” replied my guardian. And the snake bent down and kissed my pot cheek, before circling my waist with his hands. “A fine waist you have there my dear,” he said. “You must be very grateful to the good doctor for raising you so well.”

And then he was gone, back in the crowd, schmoozing and drinking, his pretty feminine accessory at his side.

And I seethed. Seethed at how his wealth and power enabled him to get away with it. How he could ruin my life and walk off scot-free to continue enjoying his own.

But even that was not the end of it.

No, if only!

Later on, perhaps an hour or two later, when Daniel had sat me down on a chair and was over on the other side of the room discussing something with a friend, the slimy bastard came over to me, sat right next to me and circle my waist again with his hands. “Hello Clare, or should I say Libby,” he whispered in my ear. “Long time no see. You’re looking well I must say, damned sexy in fact. If I wasn’t already married, I’d consider asking your guardian for your hand and breaking in that virginity of yours. Except that you and I know that you’re as much a virgin as Chloe there is my cousin. She’s my latest flame. Pretty little thing isn’t she, almost as good as you were… and your sister. I’m dolling her next month; it’ll be a lovely nineteenth birthday surprise for her. The academy has found me another and she, like you, will never be able to tell tales.” His hand trailed over to my breasts and squeezed them lewdly. He licked my pottery face and smiled. “What are you thinking, eh? My little vixen, I bet you hate me. I’ve heard rumours that the good doctor there keeps you chaste and locked up. How does a woman with your libido cope? Not my problem I suppose. But you’ll be pleased to know that I still think of you, and that sister of yours. She’s called Pillows these days and they say her tits are bigger than yours. That’s over the top in my mind, but a guardian knows best I suppose. And her guardian is far less moral and upstanding than yours. Oh well my precious, until next time.”

And then, with a final squeeze, he was gone, and I was left seething. My breasts heaved up and down as I processed all that he had told me. Then I blacked out and the next thing I knew was Daniel bringing me round.

The alarm rings, my time is up. What am I to do? What am I to do? How can I save that poor innocent and see that justice is meted out to that snake?

27th November 1967

I have so much to tell this week. Looking back, I can hardly believe that I did what I did and what has happened has happened. Things have changed beyond all recognition.

Seeing Jacob shook me beyond all imagining. To have the cause of all my misfortune come in front of me and then taunt me with his deeds while boasting that he planned to commit further evil caused something inside of me to snap. I thought of that poor girl, an innocent like me, naïve and hopeful, looking forward to a life of love and luxury, when in reality forced silence, helplessness and the very denial of her humanity was all that awaited.

But more than that, I thought of my darling sister Emma; sickly, suffering Emma, who prayed for a better world but who, like me, had been reduced to a faceless, anonymous doll, an over-sexualised parody of a human being, demeaned further (as if it were possible!) by her very name. known to the world as ‘Pillows’ – it made me sick!

It was Emma – always Emma, never never ‘Pillows’! – that did it for me. Her suffering gave me the strength and determination to do something. I imagined her sitting there, her mammoth breasts heaving up and down, blank and expressionless to the world but crying inside, waiting only to be raped. Yes, I would act.

But how? What could I do, silent and helpless as I was. I had no voice to call with, no arms to signal with and no eyes to plead with. I had nothing; I could hardly move without assistance.

All night I tossed it over in my mind and then I came to a resolution. The following morning, after my enema and smoothie breakfast, I was led into the sitting room for another day of interminable sitting and staring. Daniel sat in his armchair reading The Telegraph. But that day I did not just sit there. Instead I squirmed and shook. Daniel looked up. “Libby, is something wrong? You seem disquieted.” Using the little neck movement that I still possessed, I nodded. He seemed concerned. I squirmed more and then, with an almighty effort, toppled myself onto the floor. Stunned, he got up and helped me back up onto my spindle heels. “Libby are you well?” I shook my head and he tried to sit me down again. I carried on shaking my head, but it was to no avail. I was seated on the settee again and my maid called. She brought medicine which I was forced to take. I soon went drowsy and could resist no more.

Before I continue, I shall speak of my maid. I do not know her name, but I know her secret. She came with me, “a gift from the school” although Daniel pays her wages. But he is not the only one, of that I am sure, for although I never saw her at the school, I am sure she turned up several times at Bedford Place whilst I was living there with Jacob. She is his woman, his spy who does all that she can to ensure that I let no secrets slip. When Daniel suggested this diary, she was dead against it, going beyond her remit as a servant and protesting with him that it would “destroy the doll mind and cause the poor creature pain”. But, to his credit, he insisted, the preferences of his late wife drowning out the protestations of a servant, and so she relented, although ever since she has ensured that it remains firmly under lock and key whenever I am not writing so that none may chance on it.

But I digress. For two days I was kept drugged, in a foggy netherworld between reality and fantasy. But I kept my resolve! When the drugs wore off my rebellion continued. Walking into the dining room, I freed myself momentarily of the hated maid’s grasp, tottered to the wall and slammed my face against it, time after time. I was stopped pretty quick, but the point was made. “I shall sedate her again,” said the maid straightaway, as Daniel restrained me. I shook my head non-stop and he noticed. “No,” he said, “something disquiets her, and I do not think it is a physical illness this time.

“It is an illness of the mind, sir; I shall call the doctor.”

“No, no! I know dear Libby well and this is unlike her. She has exhibited no other symptoms of mental malady before this week. I do believe she wishes to tell me something.”

I nodded my head.

“Sir, she cannot. It will destroy the doll mind; dolls are trained to be without thoughts and personality; the very desire to communicate with you is a sign of mental illness in itself. I shall call…”

“You shall do nothing except depart! You go beyond your remit as a servant and speak to me impudently! It is unacceptable!”

“Sir, I apologise humbly but I must…”

“Leave! Now!”

And so, we were alone and this was my chance. But how to tell him? He asked numerous questions: Was my stomach alright? Did I feel dizzy? None were helpful, so I shook me head at them all. “Do you need to write something?” he asked. I nodded.

Slowly he unfastened my accursed monoglove. While I waited for the blood to rush back into my tortured arms, he fetched a pen and paper. Then I wrote, shakily and slowly: READ MY DIARY.

“But I cannot! It is sacred and private! It would be an imposition!”

I pointed to the words again and then added, ALL IS NOT WHAT YOU THINK. SINS HAVE BEEN COMMITTED.

He nodded slowly and left the room. As he did he bumped into my maid who was descending the stairs with the very diary he intended to read. She had guessed my message or had perhaps been listening in. “Give that here!” he demanded. She turned away and made for the fire, but he did battle with her, trying to wrest it from her hands. She though, despite her corseting, was a young and strong woman. The commotion though brought Mrs. Salt running in and her strength combined with my guardian’s saved the book. The gardener also entered, and he restrained the recalcitrant maid while Daniel took the book, laid it on the table and started to read.

It took him a long time, but at the end he closed it, look at me with an expression of immense pity and merely said, “The wrongs shall be righted, and the sinners punished.”

I fainted with joy.


4th December 1967

How can I write these words? My pen trembles in my hand. I am so excited, yet also full of fear. Tomorrow is the day when things are to happen; I just hope that it all goes to plan; Daniel is such a darling, I just hope…

Let me start at the beginning. So, Daniel read the diary. Some parts of it shocked me and, I must confess that the sections where I criticised him caused me to curl up with shame, but he learnt it all: my deception, my forced immorality, my true identity and my abduction and far from voluntary dollification. He learned that he had been lied to and he learned who the evil criminal behind it all was; a man whom he had hitherto regarded as a friend. And he learned that more evil was to take place unless he prevented it.

Upon finishing the book, he hugged me, tears flowing from his eyes and repeated over and over again, “Clare, I am so, so sorry! Please forgive me!” Using my arms for something other than writing for the first time in ages, I expressed human emotion for the first time since my dollification and hugged him back. Then, when the tears had dried, he acted.

He did not call the police as I had expected, but instead ordered Mrs. Salt and the gardener to lock the scheming maid in the coalhole and stand guard over her. Then he made a telephone call to a close friend in the Conservative Party who himself made a call to someone else. Half an hour later there was a knock on the door and two men entered, their faces hidden by their scarves. They sat down at the table and unwrapped themselves and, I was shocked to discover that one of them was no less a personage than the prime minister. The other, I later learnt, was the Chairman of the Party.

They read the diary and then asked me questions which I answered with my pen. The whole dollification and abduction ring was exposed – the charity that “saved” Emma and I was the first stage of the larger operation – and the key names were given. At the end, the prime minister sat back and exclaimed, “That cur has deceived both his country and his wife, my darling niece. The bastard shall pay!”

“Indeed, he must,” agreed the Party Chairman, “but we cannot afford a scandal, not with the Liberals so strong. We must deal with it, undoubtedly, not just Hunter but Sykes and Mason and all the others, but we must be discreet. The police can never know and nor too the papers. Hunter must not be outed, he must have an accident.”

“Agreed, we are shaky ground with the electorate as it is. What do you propose?”

“A party, here at Dr. Edwards’ residence. To celebrate young Libby’s engagement to… oh I don’t know who, someone, she’s only a doll after all. Hunter will not be able to resist the invitation; another opportunity to gloat and wallow in his depravities. He can toast the bride to be and then fall ill. MI5 can arrange that. Forced to lie down in a back bedroom, he can be dealt with appropriately by our agents.”


“Oh no, Will, something far more fitting.”

“Explain please, I am intrigued.”

“Young Libby here is a doll, is she not? But, having read that diary, I suspect that she would like to regain her human status, am I not correct?” I nodded my head. “Well, my dear, you certainly deserve it for your efforts. But the undollifying of a doll who, in the eyes of the world, embraced dollification voluntarily, would seem strange, questionable even. So, I suggest that Libby the doll remains, forever a ward in Dr. Edwards’ house. The doll remains but instead, the good doctor here takes a wife, a poor orphan from the East End named Clare Warwick. Yet more proof of Daniel’s fine charitable instincts.”

“Hugh, I do not have the finances to remarry now, I…”

“Daniel, the party shall pay, fear not. We are supporting the charitable endeavours of one of our most loyal members.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with Hunter, Hugh!”

“It has everything to do with Jacob Hunter MP, Will, because we will need someone else to become Libby the Doll. Behind that blank mask, it matters naught who or what they originally were, only what they now are; an orphaned dolly in the good doctor’s care.”

“Emasculate and dollify the cur! Splendid idea!”

“Indeed. Hunter becomes Libby and the nation mourns a fine MP who was killed in a freak food poisoning accident. Who knew that he was allergic to peanuts? Why, it had never been picked up before. His wife can mourn him properly, in all innocence and the sympathy might help our electoral prospects.”

“And the others who supported this evil school and operation. Oh, trust me, I shall deal with them in due course…”

And so, it is that tonight we shall welcome Jacob Hunter MP again to celebrate my engagement to one Richard Felix (an associate of Hugh de Ferrers, the Party Chairman I am told). For one last time I shall be forced to endure his taunts and look into his evil eyes. And then, then he shall meet his just desserts.

A year later

A year has passed since the last entry that you read, and my life has changed beyond all imagining. Indeed, I have changed my very identity no less than twice, first becoming Miss Clare Warwick again and then Mrs. Clare Edwards. Which is why this diary ceased to be, for it was no longer the diary of Olivia Edwards, the doll ward of Dr. Daniel Edwards. She still exists, of course, but after that last entry, she decided that she did not want to keep a diary any longer for it was destroying her doll mind. A wise choice. Thus, her diary ended, and the diary of Clare Edwards nee Warwick began. That, though, is a story for another time. For today, I am merely to wrap up any loose ends in the old Libby’s diary that you, the reader, may have. Not that anyone will ever read this work, or at least, not in the next fifty years, but I cannot bear to see it either destroyed or left unfinished and so here we go.

The plan hatched by the Party Chairman was executed. I was dolled up to the nines (pardon the pun) by my new maid (provided by the party; the old one had been taken away by two MI5 agents and I never heard of her again) and then led on my leash downstairs to meet my fiancé, a gentleman named Richard Felix whom I had never seen before and would never see again. The assembled party applauded and toasted us and, in amongst them, was Jacob Hunter. Just seeing him made my compressed stomach lurch. He filled me with both disgust and fear and I trembled. Some time afterwards, he came over to me. His arm sidled around my tightly-cinched waist and his other hand strayed onto my breasts, squeezing each one lewdly. “This may well be the last time I have the opportunity to enjoy these, my darling Clare,” he whispered into my ear. As a mute, anonymous doll, I could not answer him of course, but inside I shouted back, “So it may, far more than you realise!”

And, as if those unspoken words had been heard by a higher power, a look of pain and dismay passed across his face. He withdrew his hands from my unprotected body and brought them to his own stomach, before them brushing his brow. He glanced at the drained champagne glass that he had left on a nearby table. Forgetting about me in an instant, he mumbled to himself, “Bloody champers must be off. I feel damned dicky!” And then he stumbled off, taken three lurching steps before crashing to the ground.

The whole room stopped, and several men ran over to him. “Are you alright there, Jacob? Something up man?” He groaned with misery and, if I had not known the true nature of his soul, I would have felt pity for him. But then two of them picked him up and took him to a room and he was gone.

The following afternoon it was announced that the Rt. Hon. Jacob Hunter MP had passed away following a party at a friend’s house. The coroner ascribed the cause of death to be some peanuts that had been available at the party and which, unbeknownst to himself, the much-mourned Mr. Hunter had an allergy to.

But before that death was announced and a coffin carried out of the house, I too left the premises, taking the car to the Great Ormond Street Hospital. I was going to have some further enhancements made at the bequest of my fiancé and, because I would be away from home for a while, I took my large travelling trunk – large enough to contain a man, so numerous were my outfits – with me. Two burly servants struggled to lift it.

Libby the doll was in the hospital for a full month before she was released back into her guardian’s care. She never married because her fiancé decided, after the terrible occurrences during their engagement party, that such a wedding would be disrespectful to the late MP and that it obviously wasn’t auspicious anyhow. In the deluge of other news items, this tiny footnote got lost forever.

A day after Libby returned home, another girl was released from the hospital. Her name was Miss Clare Warwick, and no one knew when she had entered. She was a poor orphan who had aroused the pity of the pious Dr. Daniel Edwards and was due to become his wife. Like Libby, she was in for marital enhancements. Unlike Libby, she wasn’t a doll.

I’d have liked to have my doll suit stripped from me and my old identity restored in full, but it wasn’t possible. The rubberised skin coating was permanent and a year of being encased beneath the hood and mask had turned my plain visage into a hideous one. So, instead, my future husband and I worked together to design a new one that both reflected my identity and pleased him. It was not entirely to my liking – the lips are way too large and the nose a mere button, and the lisp I now have due to the puffed-up, shortened tongue is embarrassing, but it is a vast improvement. Now I can see freely and speak freely. Well, when there is no fleur de bouche lodged in that orifice of course.

I am no longer a doll, but that does not mean that all my freedoms have been returned. Perhaps one day, if Daniel passes away before I do, then such will be the case, but not now. I am still corseted to a mind-boggling 13.5 inches and I still wear ridiculous en pointe heels whenever I’m not bathing. Plus, although no doll, I am still a Lady of Leisure, with my arms firmly ensconced in a crushing monoglove most of the time. I protested about this, but Daniel insisted – his late wife had been a Lady of Leisure and it would be disrespectful to her memory to insist on less for her replacement – and, since he had all the power, I eventually had to relent. It is hard, that I do not deny, but a world better than life as Libby. Yes, I am effectively armless whenever in public or company, but when we are alone in the house, he has no compunction in unlacing that accursed sleeve and letting me hug him or pleasure him with my hands or mouth.

And it is the pleasuring that has made the greatest difference. That day when I was released from hospital, I was taken straight to the Church of St. Lawrence where I was wedding to Daniel in a quiet ceremony attended by close friends and the Chairman of the Conservative Party. Oh yes, and Libby the Doll, my husband’s ward, who was now back in his care following the tragic collapse of her own marriage prospects.

Then we were taken home, and, after an informal wedding dinner, I was led upstairs, and my sex freed for the first time in a year. Daniel came afterwards and within moments we coupled as two human beings. He was not such a competent and adventurous lover as Jacob, but his heart and soul were pure unlike that monster’s and so I found it more pleasurable. Libby, incidentally, was allowed to watch the proceedings as part of her education. She fidgeted throughout, the movements getting more intense as I screamed out in ecstasy, as if the show distressed her somehow.

And so that brings us to today. I am still Clare, still the wife of Dr. Daniel Edwards and still an esteemed and respected Lady of Leisure. I live in his house together with Olivia – or ‘Libby’ – the pretty doll who is his ward. As Daniel often naps or has to pop out, I have dedicated myself to caring for that poor doll. I talk to her and play with her. I tell her about my past and the evil man who so almost ruined my life. Then I tell her about my darling sister, how she has also been freed from her enforced dollhood and how she will be coming over tomorrow to play. She shudders at that thought. I can’t think why. And then I ask the maid to activate the plugs that are lodged within me and I bring myself to ecstasy whilst the poor little dolly watches. She has plugs too, but they are never ever switched on even though her fidgeting suggests she might like them to be. She is unmarried after all and shall remain so until she dies, and so any sexual release would be improper.


The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 2

Part 1

9th October 1967

I have decided to write today about my story. All I have done so far is give you my name and tell you about the miserable life that I live today. But that is not my life. That is the life of this Libby Edwards and I will never be her. My name is Clare Warwick. I am 22 years old and I was born in Bethnal Green, London.

It’s a rough place is the Green. No one there has any money, and everyone has a knife. I was born at home because we couldn’t afford the hospital and my mum had already given birth to five babies before me. Only two survived, my brother Jack and my sister Emma who is two years older than me. This time I survived but my mum did not. She died the next day from what they call “complications”. I often wonder what she was like and what my life would have been had she lived. Hard no doubt, but better than this I am sure. I was so jealous of all the other kids who had mums to cook for them and wash their clothes and stuff. I never had that. We only had dad and all he did was drink. He loved my mum you see, and when she died he couldn’t cope. So, it fell to Jack to look after me. He was eleven when I was born, and he did the best he could. But with dad drinking so much, he got sacked from his job and so Jack had to leave school and go out to work. Work though, can never provide enough for a family, so he left that and joined a gang. He loved the gang, the friendship and brotherhood it brought, plus the money. When they’d done a robbery, he’d come home his pockets full of notes and we’d go into the West End on the train and he’d buy us a lovely meal in some nice restaurant. But those days were rare, and they didn’t last. One day he failed to come home. He was found three hours later in a ditch, slashed with a knife.

After that dad drank more. We began to miss meals and our electric was cut off. Then the water stopped too, and we began to smell. Emma fell ill but there was no money for medicine. She pulled through but then, a year later, she fell ill a second time. The doctor said her constitution was weak and she needed medical help and care. But what could we do? Dad was comatose from the drink all the time and no one wanted to employ a dirty wretch like me. I was sixteen at the time, uneducated and unkempt. The doctor said that there might be a way and ordered dad to come and see him the following morning before he’d had a drink. Sensing a chance to save Emma, we dragged him to the surgery. What we heard when we got there was most unexpected.

Standing next to the doctor was a smart man in a grey suit. The doctor explained that this gentleman, a Mr. Fellows, was a representative of an educational charity. He said that he had informed the charity about Emma’s plight and they wanted to help our family. Dad and I fell onto our knees in thanks. He said that the charity was willing to pay all of Emma’s medical costs for the next twenty years and to educate her until she turned twenty-one. It was too good to be true. But then it got better. They wanted to do the same for me too. All dad had to do was sign over the right of parenthood for both his daughters to the charity until we reached adulthood at 21. He did so willingly and then we signed to say that we had no issue with this. And then, he left and…

There is the alarm. I shall continue tomorrow…


16th October 1967

And so, I started school. It was a weird experience. I’d never had any education or order or boundaries in my life and now I was expected to sit in a class all day long and behave like a good little girl. Of course, with my background, that did not come easily at first, but the school – its full title was the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies – was used to girls like me from deprived backgrounds and knew how to deal with us. When I misbehaved, I was punished with canings on my bottom and then silenced with a gag in my mouth. I resisted for several months, but after that my protestations ceased. They were not worth it.

Not worth it and also the actual education that I was now receiving, I began to find interesting. I was naturally a bright child yet had received precious little education or intellectual stimulus before. I was taught the rudiments of reading, writing and ’rithmetic and began to find pleasure in the stories that I could now immerse myself in.

Equally, I also began to enjoy what the school was doing with my body. The institution was a charitable one established by several Conservative MPs who believed in raising up intelligent members of the lower orders to the civilised classes. That meant educating our minds of course, but also our bodies. We had lessons on deportment and elocution, how to dance and how to make small talk in graceful company, but above that, we were made beautiful.

It started with the uniform. Although a plain affair of dark grey satin with a white apron, it was always to be kept immaculate and we looked fetching in it as the cut was low which exposed the tops of our budding breasts and the waist incorporated a tight corset. I had never worn stays before, but from the first day at the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies they became an essential part of my life, being worn during all waking hours, then removed for washing and night stays then affixed around me, these being slightly looser and finishing under the bosom. They squeezed me terribly, destroyed my appetite, caused me to faint regularly and be always short of breath. But they made me beautiful too. For the first time in my life I felt desirable and I liked that feeling.

Nor too was it only me; my sickly sister blossomed into a stunning, pale-faced beauty with a waist of but 14 inches. She became the belle of the school but then, one day, she left. The headmistress explained to me that she had found a gentleman who would take care of her. For several months she wrote weekly letters, telling of trips to the theatre and the park. Oh, how I envied her. But then the letters stopped, and I grew sad. She had forgotten her little sister; was perhaps ashamed of her even. Later, I realised the truth.

There were other additions to my attire as well. On my first day, in a humiliating episode, my womanly parts were inspected, shaved and then covered with a burning paste. When removed the hair stopped growing there and I was as smooth as a baby. Over those most intimate areas I then wore a belt, night and day, made of metal, that stopped me touching them. This was no great loss as, in the Green, I had rarely touched myself since my hands were so dirty I feared infection and I was so tired from my work that I had not the energy. I was innocent back then; if only it were so now.

And so, my life changed, for the better. Daily I blossomed from a gawky child into an educated and graceful young lady. We would have soirees when men came around and they were the highlight of my – and my girlfriends’ – existences. We were dressed up by the school in the finest gowns and we would enjoy the male company, make small-talk with them and dance. Although most were as old as my father or more, it was jolly good fun and they were the days I remember most fondly.

Well, all except one of them.

The one where I first met Jacob Hunter MP.

But that is a story for later. In the meantime, our waists were steadily reduced, down to the school minimum of 15 inches and then mine beyond, down to an agonising 14. Laced so I could hardly breath or function as a human being, but I loved the attention – particularly the male attention – it brought. I was starting to notice the opposite sex you see, and the power that I had over them. Tightly-laced and finely attired I could make the heads of an entire room turn. For the first time in my young life, I commanded respect and attention and I grew drunk on it. Too drunk, for I did not notice the dangers.

Not even when it was too late.

23rd October 1967

I knew that something special was up. After all, pupils never got invited to the headmistress’s office. I had been in the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies for three years and had blossomed from a puny, gawky, filthy and uncouth girl into a woman, a woman with refinement and manners and a waist fourteen centimetres in circumference that left me feeling elegant and breathless at all times.

Almost a year before, the same had happened to Emma. She had survived her illness scares and the hearty diet and healthy regime of the school had caused her to blossom into a real beauty. Then she had been called into the office and, a week later, she was gone. Somehow, perhaps at one of the soirees, I am unsure, a gentleman had noticed her, and she lived with him. I did not ask if they were married, it was not my place, but I suspected not. I did not approve, of course, but growing up in the Green, you get to take the world for how it is rather than how it should be.

And so, it was for me too. I had an admirer.

His name was Jacob Hunter and he was a Conservative Member of Parliament. His constituency was somewhere in Gloucestershire which was where his ancestral mansion was too, although he split his time between there and the capital. He was also married, to no less a figure than the niece of the prime minister, and she was a lady of great status, a Lady of Leisure no less, who was never seen with unbound arms or a fleur de bouche filling her mouth. I was shocked. Surely if he is married, then he shouldn’t be admiring me I asked with an innocence that was not entirely genuine.

“It is quite normal and correct for gentlemen of standing like Mr. Hunter to take on a mistress,” explained the headmistress. “You will not understand this being innocent of the ways of the world, but men produce a seed inside them which is released during bedtime activities. If this seed is not released it can build up and cause pain and stress. For a gentleman like Mr. Hunter who, by necessity, spends long periods away from home guiding his country, then prevention of that build-up is important. You are serving King and Country by becoming his mistress, Miss Warwick.”

Whatever. All I saw was a new chapter in my life, a chapter with parties and freedoms, away from school, an adult at last.

I remember that first night vividly. It’s a key moment in any girl’s life after all; the night when she truly becomes a woman. I approached it with a degree of fear but also great curiosity and, after the initial pain, I found great pleasure. Jacob was an experienced lover, extremely experienced, and he knew how to give himself pleasure whilst also putting me at my ease and giving me some pleasure of my own. A whole new world was opened up to be and, as he exploded within me, I resolved to make it my own.

And so it began: trips to the theatre wearing a bonnet with a veil to hide my identity; masked balls where all participants were unknown and discreet private parties with carefully selected individuals that often ended up closer to an orgy than a soiree, followed by lazy days in the house, lounging around clad only in my stays, waiting for my man who would arrive after parliamentary business had concluded, often bearing some sort of sparkling gift for me to wear.

Not that I had it all my own way, of course. Jacob was used to power and wielded it naturally. Both in and out of bed he was the master. Several weeks after our affair began, he presented me with a plug shaped a little like a Christmas tress with a large diamond set in the broad end. Confused, I could not figure out its purpose so, purposefully, he bent me over and carefully but firmly inserted it into my bottom hole before then declaring that I was to wear it continually night and day. It was strange, walking around with a rod inserted in my bum, but I bore it for him as I feared the consequences of disobeying. And then, several days later, he bent me over again, removed the plug and instead inserted his member in there. My cries of shock and dismay were simply ignored.

And so, it continued. The winter came and went and so did the summer. During recess we went on a short break to the south of France where I strolled, my face veiled, of course, along the promenade in Nice and marvelled at the lax dress of the locals whilst enjoying the sun.

And throughout this entire period, my own dress changed. My corsets were further tightened until fourteen inches became the norm, not the exception, and for the finest balls I could struggle down to thirteen. This was helped by an operation that Jacob paid for in which my lower ribs were removed, which facilitated the reduction but left me dependent on my stays for the rest of my life. And, whilst I was there, my breasts were enlarged, with 500cc being put in each one. Again, I had no say in any of this although, if we are to be honest, I did not mind that much. After all, were these measures not proof that he loved me and valued me? And that the Cinderella had truly become a princess?

And so, one year rolled by and then two and then three until I reached my twenty-second year. By then though, things had begun to change. They were barely perceptible at first, but real nonetheless. A decrease in his enthusiasm in the bedchamber and in the frequency of his visits and…

The bell. I shall continue next week!


30th October 1967

So, where was I? Oh yes, I got to the point where things started to go horrible. How can I forget that? I will never forget it, it was the worst moment of my life and yet, at the time, it started so well.

Things between me and Jacob Hunter were fine. Or at least, that was how I saw it at the time. In reality, so he had begun to cool a little. He demanded sex less often and came around to the house less frequently. But I just assumed that was because he was busy and too tired for bedtime activities. Certainly, his demeanour didn’t really change. He was courteous to me in public and condescending in private like he always had been. But then my education had taught me that that was how men are to their womenfolk; they are the superior beings after all.

It was his birthday. He was forty-two I seem to recall. He came to the house and took me out. We went for a lovely meal at the Burlington – I had duck à l’orange and a bottle of 1963 Clos St. Denis, I remember it clearly – and then went to the Duke of York’s Theatre to watch Figaro (he always loved the theatre and, since my education, I had begun to appreciate it too). Then it was back to the house and the usual lovemaking. Except that this was not the usual; it was rabid and animalistic, raw passion. It was incredible. Looking back today, I understand why. Then he made me some tea and within seconds I began to feel drowsy. He kissed me on the forehead and I closed my eyes, his smiling face the last thing I was to see.

When I awoke I was not in my bed nor even in the house. Instead, I was in a hospital and I hurt all over. I wondered what the hell had happened and so I cried out. Worryingly though, no sound was made. Indeed, my mouth wouldn’t move. I won’t say that it wouldn’t open because it already was, very wide, but it was stuffed full of something which prevented any sound. More than that, my face seemed to be covered with something, a mask of some sort. My vision, which was clear enough, was like looking through a pair of binoculars only without the magnification. It was as if I were staring through two pinholes, each covered by a lens. What the hell had happened?

I tried to move but found that I could not. Somehow, I was strapped down. All I could do was lie there and wait. Of course, I struggled for some time and yelled into my gag, but nothing happened and so in the end I just lay there. As I did I began to realise that it wasn’t just my face that was covered. Whatever was over it extended around my entire head, like some sort of hood or helmet. And my body was wrong too. The little movement I had made had caused me to heat up far more than it should have done. That too was covered, encased.

I felt the need to go to the toilet. I tried to hold it in but as the hours passed I could not. Eventually, I gave in to the urge and peed. I must have been fitted with a catheter because it drained away without making me damp. And then I waited some more and some more. Hour after hour in that silent, white room with only a ceiling and a strip light to stare at. Where was Jacob? Where was I? Was this what hell is like?

Sometime later, possible days after I first awoke, someone came in. I jerked about when I heard the door and their steps. It was a nurse. She looked at me and said, “So, Number 14, you are back with us. Excellent! I shall get the doctor.”

She left, and I was alone again, confused. What did she mean, ‘Number 14’?

A male doctor came soon afterwards. He did not speak to me nor acknowledge my struggles. Instead, he poked around at my body, tapped my head and squeezed by bottom and breasts. “All healed well and good to go,” he said eventually, more to himself than me. And then I was alone again.

Some hours later two male nurses came carrying a large crate. They released me from my bonds and then lifted me up from the bed and into the crate. Despite my weakness I struggled vigorously but to no avail. They took no notice of me as if I weren’t even human.

Little did I know that, in their eyes, I no longer was.


6th November 1967

Oh my God, this is intolerable! It rained today and so we didn’t go out. Instead Daniel sat me in the lounge and read me a story. I think he was getting excited as he sat on the settee alongside me and put his hand around my waist and squeezed my mammoth breasts. Despite my revulsion at his age – although that is far less these days, indeed, I have become accustomed to it and it feels like the norm – I feel myself attracted to him and long for more. My loins are on fire and I snuggle up to him, my breasts heaving as my breath goes short. He seems to notice and takes my hand. What is happening? He leads me to the bedroom and I totter behind him excited. Is this going to be it? The time when his Christian defences are breached, and he gives in to his carnal desires. I pray silently that it is so, and those prayers are answered… for him. He kneels me on the floor and sticks his rock-hard member in my mouth. Within seconds semen floods my throat. He is sated, and he lies on the bed, beckoning me to join him. I do so but that is all. He sleeps, and I lie there awake and tortured by unquenchable desire.

Desire that still pervades all my thoughts.

I must think of other things, move my mind onto something less sexual. I shall continue with my story…

Duck à l’orange and a bottle of Clos St. Denis. I can taste them now. I dream about them. For they were the last meal that I ever had. As a human being that is.

The journey in that crate, boxed in the dark like I had been buried alive, was petrifying. We bumped about, and I felt myself moving. At several points I wanted to vomit but could not. And then, all was still and after what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, light flooded in, blinding me.

I was in a dormitory. Two rows of single beds, all empty and made up. They laid me on one of them and then left. I was no longer strapped down, so I tried to move, but after being inactive for so long, I found that I was weak and couldn’t even sit up, let alone walk. What I could do was put my fingers up in front of my face. To my surprise, they seemed as if they were covered in latex or rubber, like those of a mannequin or a doll rather than a living girl. Then a thought flashed through my mind, a horrifying, terrible thought. I tried to banish it, but it kept returning, stronger each time. I was peering through pinholes, my head was encased, my voice was silenced, and my hands were covered in rubber. Are they all not signs of being a doll, one of those weird, living dolls that started off as some underground fetish subculture and seem to be rapidly becoming mainstream. Yet those dolls all choose to be like that, they aren’t forced into it. They have depraved minds that long for some sort of submissive existence. They certainly aren’t the educated mistress of a Member of Parliament with the desire to experience as much of life as possible. And yet… yet had not the last thing that I remembered before blacking put been drinking drugged tea and the smiling face of that Member of Parliament. Could he have…? He had the power and yet why? And I had not consented?

It was then that the lack of sex and infrequent visits began to make sense. And the unusual passion of our final night. And the smile. That evil smile.

A maid came with a dress for me. It was a school uniform similar to that which I had worn at the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies. Passively, I let her put it on me and lace a pair of high-heeled boots (I was already wearing a corset of course). Then she helped me to stand and supported and led me as I walked down a corridor to an office. In that room another woman was waiting. The maid sat me on a chair and the explanation began.

“Welcome to the Chesham Doll Academy Number 14. I am the Headmistress, Miss Unsworth and you shall obey me at all times. If you haven’t already realised it, you have undergone a dramatic transformation. I believe that you were called Clare before. You are no longer Clare, she does not exist. She made a request to be dollifed last month which was approved by no less a figure than the Member of Parliament, Jacob Hunter. She signed over all her rights to me until she completes doll school and has a new guardian. Do not fear, there is one already lined up and you shall be with him in a week’s time. His name is Mr. Martin Letchworth and he is a hat manufacturer from Luton. In the interim you shall accustom yourself to your new reality.

At present you have no name, as is the norm for all the dolls in this institution. Your husband shall name you when you come into his care. You will stay in his care until your dying day as, once married, you are, of course, his personal property. He believes you to be 16-years old and to have chosen this course in life freely. Naturally, he shall never learn otherwise, for not only are you now a doll but you are also a full-time Lady of Leisure and therefore communication is forbidden.

Naturally, as a doll, you are to have no opinions and no personality. You are just to be. This is something that we engrain in our students from the day that they are first dollified. However, I do appreciate that whilst they have years to acclimatise themselves to their new reality – and many of them have chosen such a reality – neither apply to you. Therefore, I shall allow you a question, the last that you will ever be allowed to ask. Edith, pass her the pen and notebook.”

The maid passed me the pen and, in my trembling, rubberised hand, I took it and wrote shakily, “Why me?”

The maid passed it to the headmistress who looked at me with a pitying, almost human look for the first and last time ever. “Why you? To put it simple, because you became involved with Jacob Hunter MP. He is a married man with a penchant for young girls. But there are problems with such a hobby, particularly when your wife is the niece of the Prime Minister. So, he keeps his mistresses well-hidden in the house that he has bought specifically for that purpose – 34 Bedford Place I believe – and enjoys them until he is bored of them. And then he contacts us, drugs them and dollifies them, leaving this institution to dispose of them to loving husbands or guardians. A tad unethical maybe, but extremely profitable; it is his donations to this institution that are funding my retirement in Eastbourne. And why does he dollify them? Because a doll can never tell the newspapers about his infidelities. It guarantees silence and respectability and for a man with hopes of becoming prime minister one day, that is worth more than gold.”

And so, I became a doll and am a doll to this day. The evil bastard! He goes around fucking whatever girl he wants, taking their youth and innocence and then casting them on the scrapheap as I was, turning them into dolls, silence and placid.

And while he fucks, I merely dream about it, long for it, am driven crazy by this ache in my loins, locked away by a chastity belt put there by a man who is well-intentioned but thinks I’m a 16-year old virgin innocent of the ecstasies of the bedchamber.

God, I hate them all!

13th November 1967

Wednesday was the highlight of this week. Not that it was exactly a highlight, but it was a change and for me that means everything. What tortures me the most (well, about from the frustration down there) is the boredom. How could anyone, ever, choose to become a doll? It is so dull! Just sitting and waiting and then more sitting and waiting and then… you get the picture. I guess to choose such a life you would need to be born into it, to be educated into it from birth so that you think this is what women should be and imagine that being a beautiful (in a weird kind of way) mannequin is the highest ideal that a woman can strive for. Either that or you’re just plain weird. My guess though, based purely on my own experience, is that many of those who “choose” such an arduous path in life are, in fact, forced. This is slavery in the twentieth century. No shackles, chains and manacles, but instead an elegant monoglove, tight corset and false, ceramic smiling face.

But I digress. Wednesday. Wednesday was this week’s highlight because on Wednesday we received an unexpected visitor. It was no less a personage than the Duchess of Devonshire, formerly known as Rebecca Huntington, and one of those weird posh girls who used to visit Daniel.

She came with her maid, her mouth firmly gagged with a fleur de bouche and her arms restrained in the more lenient gigot sleeves manner. Daniel was delighted when he saw her and kissed her cheek before circling her narrow waist – though a full inch broader than mine I do declare! – with his hands. She was shown into the drawing room and her gag removed. She introduced herself to me and then proceeded to chat to my guardian, reliving the good old days when she was a student at the Berkhamsted School for Girls and used to visit Daniel as part of her Community Service lessons. And then, to my astonishment, “for old times’ sake”, she knelt down in front of him, let him unfasten his trousers and proceeded to bring him to completion orally before swallowing his seed and then licking his member clean. Daniel was overjoyed, declaring that she “hadn’t lost any of her skills” and then, calm as you like, they both sat down again and proceeded to discuss her marriage with the Duke of Devonshire and my wardship with Daniel. He told her that I was an excellent house doll and that my presence brought him untold joy, at which point they both turned to me and smiled, and then moved onto another topic.

Sometime later, after they had both consumed a couple of cups of tea, Daniel excused himself in order to use the toilet and us two ladies were left alone together. As soon as he was out of the room, the Duchess stood up with great grace and elegance and walked across to me. Then she stared at my false face and began to speak: “I told everyone that I came here today to see dear old Dr. Edwards and to a degree that is true, but to a greater degree it is a rather large lie. Indeed, what fascinates me the most is not him, but you. I have a cousin who is thinking of dollification and an old school friend who embraced it last year. The whole idea fascinates me: what would make a girl do such a thing? How do you live? What is it like to be permanently silent and helpless? I must admit, the idea both frightens and fascinates me. It also excites me. Oh, how I wish you could talk, you sexy little minx. What secrets could you tell? And what is it like to lie with a doll? I did not tell Dr. Edwards of course, but since marriage I have discovered the joys of sex and I enjoy a lot of it. But little is with my husband. Instead his sister, a darling thing of only seventeen years is my most regular lover. To lie with a woman is exquisite, but to lie with a woman who had been dollified, now I wonder what that is like? We shall not find out of course, but we can do something else…” And then, to my shock and amazement, she leaned over and kissed my faux lips, her tongue entering my stuffed and modified mouth channel. She lingered there for some seconds and then withdrew, panting, her enormous breasts heaving, as too were mine which had been pressed so tightly against hers.

“That was… different,” she declared, staring into my glass eyes. The lips feel soft, almost real, and the inside of your mouth is exquisite, like a second vagina almost, but the rigid, unmoving, expressionless face… I don’t know, I really don’t know. Oh, my dear Libby, you are a woman of mystery, you truly are. I just wish I could unravel your secrets.” And with those words, she returned to her seat and sat down. Moments later, Daniel reappeared. “Have you two ladies been getting on well?” he asked.

“We’ve been having some female bonding,” replied the Duchess with an almost imperceptible wink.

Twenty minutes left… I shall return to my story.

So, I was a doll. They had made me into that. He had. The evil bastard! The man I had loved, trusted even. He took my humanity away. That evening my maid stood me in front of the mirror and I saw what I had become. A rubberised mannequin with enormous breasts (40H I later learnt) and an unreal face. For some reason, perhaps pity, she explained it all to me. She told me that the skin had been coated with a rubberised, breathable material, sprayed on whilst hot and then cooled to my contours. It is permanent. She told me that in the old days, living dolls had to wear latex suits that were removed every few weeks for cleaning. She expanded on this with horror stories about internal plumbing whereby girls consumed their own wastes and thus never needed the toilet. She believed the current situation to be a vast improvement. “The smell when those suits were removed was horrific! I’m just glad that the girls were knocked out with sleeping gas when we did it.” So, maybe I was the lucky one, not being born a decade or two earlier, but it didn’t feel like it.

My head looked vaguely familiar. She explained that my fiancé had a thing for an actress whom he’d also known growing up and had a crush on. He’d wanted to marry her but, to his disgust, she’d declared that she would not wed until thirty, wishing to concentrate on her career. And so, he had created me instead. Later, one day when I was seated in front of a TV, I saw her in a film playing a star-crossed lover. Her name was Olivia Capulet and I cried internally as I watched.

It was explained that the head was made personally for me, with the internal gag fitted first, expanded to the maximum, and then the headpiece attached in two parts, then glued together and the wig, a mane of ebony locks, affixed. It was beautiful… I am beautiful… but in a weird, unreal way, my piercing blue eyes staring at you mindlessly.

The only things that remained of the old Clare Warwick were the stays that squeezed my waist into a miniscule 13 inches. Oh yes, and the chastity belt that had once covered my privates in school. That was back too. No sexual relief until marriage.

But that marriage was not far off. My fiancé visited one day. He was a youngish man and not unattractive. He cooed over me and encircled my waist with his hands. He had a dream of the perfect woman and had created me in pursuit of that dream. As I passively let him fondle my huge, firm, surging breasts, I wondered what life with him would be like. I was never to find out. The very next day he was killed in a motor accident.

I didn’t mourn him as I didn’t know him, but his death threw them into a panic. What does one do with a doll who has already been modified to someone else’s specifications? She’s an expensive liability, a burden that no one wants to take on except at a knocked-down price. Then fate intervened: one of those freaky girls from the posh school came around. She claimed that she, along with some friends, wanted to buy a doll to keep an old man company. I was on the shelf and I was cheap, and, by chance, Olivia Capulet was this old guy’s favourite. So, I became the ward of Dr. Daniel Edwards and the rest is history.

As too is this session, for the alarm is ringing.


Part 3

The Diary of Olivia Edwards: Part 1

The Diary of Olivia Edwards

(selected extracts chosen by the editor)

 Copyright © 2019, Dave Potter

Author’s note

This story is a sequel to Dr. Edwards’ Special Birthday Present.

This tale is set in the United Kingdom in the year 1967. It is however, not the United Kingdom that we know. Instead it is an alternate United Kingdom set in an alternative universe. Therefore, much of it is familiar to us, but conversely, much isn’t. In the universe of the story, the United Kingdom is an inward-looking, reactionary society that lags behind many of its neighbours. It is governed by a powerful elite formed of an aristocracy of hereditary landowners and the Church. The Great Reform Acts of the 19th century never happened, and the place of a woman is very much that of a second-class citizen… or subject. She has no rights and no property, she is owned by her father, after his death her brother or uncle, and upon marriage, her husband. Wives are expected to be virgins and all women are corseted.

11th September 1967

So, this is my first entry in this diary. It’s weird. Being able to write. Being able to communicate with someone else like a real human being. Not that anyone will be reading this but even so. He has told me that I have an hour which seems like a long time but my hands, so used to being restrained, so unused to holding a pen, they shake, and struggle and the pen slips out of the satin gloves that cover the kid leather gloves that cover my skin.

There is so much that I want to write but now that I am sitting here I cannot think of anything. Weird.

I shall start with today. It is my birthday you see. Well, actually, it is not my birthday at all, my birthday is in about five months’ time but he has decided that today will be my birthday because today was the birthday of his dead wife and so it is mine too. And, as a present, he gave me this book. It is a beautiful book, bound in red leather with the words THE DIARY OF OLIVIA EDWARDS embossed on the front. And it has a clasp with a lock and the key to it is locked in his desk drawer and only brought out when I have my writing hour. He gave it to me and said that his old wife used to love writing in her diary and so he thought that I might like the same. I didn’t reply of course; I cannot these days, but I did like it even if I still hated him and everyone else in this world for what they have done to me. But the diary made me happy and I am enjoying writing in it and feeling like a human being again if only for an hour. I will write in it everything about my life both now and in the past and maybe my dreams for the future as well. Ha! As if one such as me is allowed dreams, or even opinions or thoughts! Of course not. But here, in this book, I can. I can be a real person again.

And so, I will start by saying who I am. My name. My real name. Not Olivia Edwards like the front of this book says or even Libby as everyone calls me. That is not my name. It only became my name on the day that they gave me to him, those weird, posh girls with their huge tits and tiny waists and weird outlook on life. Not that I am any different these days of course, but unlike them, I didn’t choose it. No, that is not the real me. The real me has a normal-sized waist and 32B breasts, not these 45DD monsters. And she has brown hair, not black, and grey eyes, not blue. She does not look like some film actress and she does not share her name. She is 22 years old and… what is that? The alarm clock. That is what he told me was my warning. I only have five minutes left! I must finish up and lock the diary before then. And so, I shall finish by writing my real name:


18th September 1967

What a horrible day today was! Not that it was any different from any other day, but it was just so hateful.

After being woken by my maid and then waking him up, I was dressed as usual, my waist laced down to a ridiculous 13 inches so that I can hardly breath and these ridiculous breasts heave up and down in a way that I would find comical if they were not attached to my own body. Then there was breakfast, a smoothie that I sucked up using a straw with the cup hung around my neck whilst he tucked into bacon and eggs and sausages and all manner of things that both smelt and looked heavenly and then… then that was it. He sat down in his armchair and read and did his bloody crossword and had a short nap and talked at me and read some more and watched some TV and I just sat there. Yes, just sat there, all day long, my arms dead from being laced into this unforgiving monoglove, my head spinning from the unbelievable tightness of my stays, my breasts surging up and down and me just sitting there, not moving, not doing anything, just being, like a doll rather than a human being.

Because of course, that is all I am these days. A doll. A bloody doll which looks pretty and provides some entertainment for its owner when he can be bothered, but the rest of the time must just sit on the shelf – or in my case, the settee – and wait. “Oh, what a lovely dolly you have there!” they all say to him, before congratulating him on his sense of social duty for taking in such a “poor, unwanted thing” whereas to me, they just say nothing. Well, the women that is; they stare sometimes, but they never speak to me. The men are different of course; they often ask if they can feel my waist (ask him, not me, naturally) and then circle it with their hands and congratulate him on what a wonderful and delightful middle his toy has. Yes, they even use the word toy. Some, when he is out of the room, do more. They give my bulging breasts a stroke and a squeeze and then kiss my ridiculous lips, before replacing my fleur de bouche. It is so humiliating. I long to scream out at them, “I am not a fucking doll, I am a living, thinking, feeling human being just like you!” but of course I don’t because I can’t. all I can do is sit there and look pretty which is all that a doll is meant to do after all.

Not that any woman stared at me today, nor any man circled my waist, or felt up my tits or shoved his tongue in my mouth. To be honest, if they had, I’d have been glad. It would have broken up the monotony, the terrible, mind-crushing monotony of it all. But there were no visitors today and no other diversions. It was raining you see, as it does far too much at this time of year. When it doesn’t rain, he sometimes suggests that we go for a “constitutional”. By this he means a short walk around the park or the town. To be honest, this is far from easy for me. The heels that I wear constantly these days that force my feet into the unnatural position favoured by ballet dancers, so that I am forever perched on my toes, making walking even a few steps a trial, let alone a circuit of the park. I feel so unsafe on them, even now, precariously placing one foot directly in front of the other, moving at a snail’s pace, each step both exhausting and terrifying as, without my hands to provide me with any balance (ensconced as they always are in this accursed monoglove) I know I could topple over at any moment. Of course, he holds me with one hand around my waist (the other holds the end of my leash – my God, I find having to wear that humiliating!) but even so, I am still scared. And even at that pace we have to stop every few yards for my tortured lungs to recover.

Yes indeed, those walks are far from pleasant yet even they provide me with some distraction. Today though, the rain beating against the windows, there was none. Unlike him, I had no book to read and the TV was at the wrong angle (not that I can hear it clearly anyhow). So, I just sit there. It makes me so angry! I am a 22-year old woman, young and full of life and energy. I should be walking the streets, chatting with friends, doing sports or just living and yet instead I am forced to live with this septuagenarian, like being put into an old folk’s home fifty years before my time. It is so unfair, so very unfair!

The alarm rings. I must finish now.

25th September 1967

I have told you about my days – they are all the bloody same so telling you about one is the same as telling you about all of them – but I mentioned nothing about the nights so that is what I have decided to write about today. Indeed, I have been thinking about it for most of the week; after all, I don’t have anything else to think about these days. I imagine what I will write, then rewrite it in my head, then rewrite it again and again and again. This must be my twelfth draft and I still haven’t started telling my tale yet.

I must admit that when I was given to Dr. Edwards, my feelings were a mixture of revulsion and thankfulness. This might not make sense to you (whoever you might be) who has not been transformed into some sort of sick plaything for men, unable to have a will or mind of her own, but it is the truth. I was originally promised to some hat manufacturer from Luton who had been wanting a doll for some time but had ummed and arred about both the price and the design. He was in his late twenties and I must admit that when he came to see me in the school for our “engagement” (what a sick perversion of what should be such a warm and happy occasion!) I found him to be rather attractive if overly leery. But then, out of the blue, he died (a motor accident I believe) and so, suddenly, I was ownerless and available again. The problem was, being designed for someone else, I was far from being a choice specimen (plus my age went against me, although they solved that easily enough) but, as chance would have it, my head design was based on that of some actress and when two of those weird girls from the posh school came looking in the school for their old teacher and they saw that I looked just like his favourite masturbation fixation, then, well, it was a match made in heaven and here I was, farmed off to a man old enough to be my grandfather.

Of course, we wouldn’t be getting married. I was to be his ward and he would nurture and care for me until I could find a suitable spouse. But I have lived in this sick world long enough to understand what that meant in reality: being a ward means being a doll for him to play with as he wants. And that sickened me: being used by an old man.

And yet, at the same time, I also looked forward to it. A woman has needs and, under this ridiculous mask, I am still a woman. Plus, I was used to having those needs fulfilled in my former life and, after weeks of frustration and inability to do anything about them, even the thought of being taken by a geriatric was bearable. The need for some release was all-consuming.

Little did I know.

After the weird girls with their bound arms, gargantuan tits and puffed-up lips had all departed, I was left alone with Edwards. I had noticed that his member was rock-hard and creating a distinct bulge in his trousers and so I thought, ‘Uh oh Clare, here it comes!’ And, sure enough, he sat me on his knee like one would a little girl, squeezed my bottom through the folds of my gown and then stroked my own ridiculous tits with his hands before then letting both hands rest circling my middle. He kissed my face too and I mentally prepared myself for the next step when… when it stopped. “My dearest Libby, it is so delightful having you here in my house; let me assure you that I shall act as a father to you, appropriate at all times, caring and nurturing of this little lost dolly who has been thrust into my care.”

And, do you know what, he has kept to his word! While my sex aches for attention, is desperate for penetration and fulfilment, I find myself stuck with some paragon of virtue, a man for whom Christianity is more than just a convenient label and who would never ever dream of touching me down there. Instead, the hateful chastity pants that I was introduced to in that hell-pit of a school have stayed on and my burning desire remains unquenched.

Which brings me to the nights.

Every evening I am taken by my maid at eight, undressed, bathed and my evening enema is endured. Then, my monoglove is relaced, my night stays fitted (these are two inches larger and leave my breasts uncovered) and a silken slip, embroidered and edged with lace, lowered over my head and fastened around my neck with a ridiculous frilly collar. It is in white of course; it signifies my “virginity”. Bedtime boots which are heelless and hold my feet en-pointe, are then laced onto my feet (reaching to the knees) and from my cuffed ankles as chain goes to the posts at the foot of the bed.

Immobilised thus, I wait. He always arrives around half an hour later, freshly bathed and smelling of soap. He lies in the bed next to me, undoes his crotch and, when his member has sprung out, positions my head over it. I bring him to fulfilment whilst he strokes my head. After swallowing his seed, I am expected to cuddle up against him. He will talk to me as if I were a little girl and then, using my bosom as a pillow, he then falls asleep. I never can do the same. Pressed against a male body, his tool brushing my most intimate areas and the silk of my nightgown heightening further my arousal, I am also insane with lust. But, the chastity pants on and my arms ensconced in that damnable monoglove, there is absolutely nothing I can do to sate myself.

And those are my nights. He usually wakes once in the night to pass water, the acrid liquid trickling down my throat as I hover between waking and sleeping, and in the mornings I bring him to fulfilment again.

But who fulfils me, eh? Shall I ever be fulfilled again?


2nd October 1967

I was going to talk about something completely different this week but the events of today have changed things. I feel so humiliated that there is only one thing on my mind and that is my fucking status as “Daddy’s Little Girl”.

It all stems from a lie. A lie that they told Daniel – that’s Edwards’ first name – when I was given to him as his ward. I was there at the time. The day after I was presented to him by those weird posh girls, a representative of the Chesham Doll Academy came around to speak to him. I was present at the time, sitting prim and proper on the settee like a good little dolly should. “She doesn’t have a name, Dr. Edwards, none of our students do. Their names are removed from their registration certificates upon dollification and replaced with the simple ‘Dolly’. To aid bureaucratic matters, we accord each student a number – she was fourteen – but as for a name, that is for you to decide. She is your dolly and, like a little girl names her toys, so too should you name yours.”

“But does she mind?” he had protested (I liked him for that). “I mean, maybe there is a name that she prefers or wants. What if I gave her the wrong one?”

The representative looked at him with a pitying smile. “Your late wife and her companions were Ladies of Leisure, were they not?”

“Indeed, they were, sir, and exemplary ones at that!”

“But they were not dolls, and you have never before possessed a living doll, am I right?”

“You are indeed, sir.”

“Then the misunderstanding is only natural, doctor. Dolls do not have opinions or preferences or thoughts or anything approaching a personality at all. They choose that path in life because they don’t want to have them, they despise the responsibility they bring. Number 14 here was overjoyed to cast them aside and empty her mind on the day she was dollified; the idea of being asked such things would only worry and confuse her.”

Angered by these words, I started to squirm and tried to shake by encased head. But the message did not get through correctly.

“Look doctor, even the thought of being asked an opinion distresses her.”

“Indeed, you are correct! How terrible of me to burden her so.”

“You only acted for the best, but the mistake is due to the fact that you see this object as human with all that entails. It was once, perhaps, but no longer. It is a doll, nothing more. And so, the name…?”

“Well, I was thinking of Libby… Olivia that is.”

“A beautiful choice, doctor. Olivia Edwards is what I shall fill in on her documentation.”

“It says here that she was born on the 01/05/1965. That would make her only two and a half years old. Surely that is a mistake?”

“No doctor, it is correct. That is the day when she was dollified, on her fourteenth birthday, the earliest we are legally allowed to dollify in this country. And as dollification is a rebirth, then that is the date we put down.”

“So, she is really sixteen?”

“That is correct, doctor.”

I squirmed and resisted again at this and again I sent out the wrong message.

“Please doctor, do not say such things. Even such basic reminders of her former humanity distress her. The Chesham Doll Academy works hard to make all human traits hateful to our students. Reminding Olivia of her human birthdate is distressing her.”

“Oh, my dearest Libby, I am so sorry!”

Sorry he may have been, but why were they lying about my past. I was dollified a month before, not two and a half years, and I was twenty-two, not sixteen. Something was up, ethically and legally, and I was the victim!

“What of marriage, sir?”

“The earliest that a human may wed is sixteen, doctor, although waiting until eighteen is generally advised due to humans making mistakes. But as a doll cannot choose, then this does not apply. Marry her off when you like, but we suggest you enjoy her company first, particularly with regards to your stress issues. It will be good training for when she is wed.”

And so, he did… and still does. He loves dressing me up in ridiculous outfits suited for the teenage girl he thinks I am, reading me children’s stories and treating me as if I were still a child and innocent of the ways of the world.

Well, almost innocent. He doesn’t hesitate to shove his cock in my modified mouth for regular relief of course.

But apart from that I am treated like a little girl at all times. People come and visit and talk about how cute and well-behaved I am before presenting me with a doll or something and whenever they speak to Daniel about me, they always stress how kind he has been in taking on some helpless, lost little dolly and being like a second daddy to me.

You would have thought that, with all my other troubles, this shouldn’t bother me for some reason, but it does. Because, when all’s said and done, that little girl dolly that they all coo over is neither a girl nor a doll but instead a living, breathing grown woman with needs, sexual needs, that torment her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Oh God how I long for some release, please! But instead no, instead I sit there, prim and innocent, daddy’s little fucking girl and… the alarm, time is up, it is over.

If only I could say the same about my frustrations!


Part 2



作者:Dave Potter 译者:佳蘅 微信公众号:火星文学讲习所



这篇故事的背景设定在1967年的联合王国。然而却不是我们熟知的那个英国,而是另一个平行宇宙中的英国。因此,很多地方对我们来说很熟悉,当然相应地也有很多地方不熟悉。在本篇故事的世界里,联合王国是一个反动的国家,对外面的世界漠不关心,比它的许多邻居都落后。它被一群权力很大的世袭的精英土地贵族和教会所统治。1832年的议会改革(译注:原文为The Great Reform Acts of the 19th century,指发生在1832年的英国议会改革,这次改革扩大了选举权的范围,削弱了地主阶级同时增强了工业资产阶级的政治力量)从来没有发生过,妇女的地位更像是二等公民…或者叫臣民。她们没有任何权利和财产,在未出嫁前她们属于她们的父亲所有,如果父亲死了就属于她们的兄弟叔伯说有,在出嫁后则归丈夫所有。她们被要求在婚前必须是处女,所有的女人都得束腰。

然而这个世界上的其他国家却都比联合王国发展得要快。在欧洲,最发达的国家是苏联,这是唯一一个妇女几乎可以在所有方面和男性享有平等地位的国家。这都是拜1905年的社会主义大革命所赐(译注:现实中1905年俄国革命失败了,但被列宁称为是1917年10月革命的“总演习”),在苏联女性可以投票、工作、参军、拥有财产和离婚。追随列宁的妻子伊涅萨•阿尔芒(译注:Inessa Armand,1874-1920,共产主义者和女权运动的先驱。现实中是列宁的情人和战友,可能是1919年莫斯科最有权势的女人。但现实中列宁的妻子始终是娜杰日达•克鲁普斯卡娅)的先例,苏联的女人们扔掉了她们的束腰,转而用一种无产阶级的、更加自由的风格打扮自己。就在我们的故事发生的年代,苏联控制了世界上绝大部分的土地,只在中国和往日的荣光已日渐衰退的德国还有一些值得苏联重视的抵抗。

本文受到的启发很大程度上来自Alice McCloud的小说Imperial Lace。然而必须要说明的是她的那个平行宇宙中的不列颠和我的并不完全一样。



































































































































































她的母亲笑了。“这个就是,”她说,然后给女儿展示一个小盒子。“这叫做‘口中花’(译注:原文为法语fleur de bouche,意为嘴里的花),在某些场合所有高贵的女士都要戴。”
















































































“或许是这样,但是这就是英格兰,我让你看这个是为了让你知道以后的生活是什么样子。在外面我们是天真、纯洁而忠贞的金丝雀,但在家里我们其实什么都知道,我们也有自己的欲望和需求,而学校的教育会帮你在家里和外面的两个世界都获得成功。拥抱这一切吧安妮,从身体到心灵,这样你才能做好自己。你在这里的快乐时光多着呢。”作者注:有趣的是,在我们的世界里,伍斯特伯爵这一爵位——它属于德贝洛蒙特家族(de Bellomonts)——的传承在1145年就终止了。显然,在安妮的世界里,伯爵家族不知怎样延续了下来,并且家族的姓氏最终降格成了贝尔蒙特(译注:Belmont,可能是指失去了法国姓氏中常见的贵族象征“de”)。






































“科赞小姐,你提的这个想法非常好,绝大多数学校都忽略了这一点。一个外国的观察家认为金丝雀女士生活在束缚之中并因此而同情她,得出结论说金丝雀是可悲的,生活在她们控制欲旺盛而虐待成性的配偶的折磨之下。他们大错特错了!是的没错,许多男人喜欢拘束女人并因此而兴奋,这是一种自然的冲动,但是更多的女人向往束缚并且寻求束缚。也许最能代表这种英式理想的女人是格蕾丝·阿滕伯勒夫人,有人形容她为‘白天是圣女,晚上是荡妇!’这话的意思当然不是说她在婚姻之外寻欢作乐,如果是那样她就不会得到我们的敬仰了。相反,这句话其实是指她在公共场合与在家里作风截然不同。阿滕伯勒女士很有教养、很智慧也很虔诚。她每天都去教堂,在她家举办的沙龙上讨论的都是最紧迫的政治问题和最新的艺术潮流。数不尽的杰出人士都参加过她的沙龙,从坎特伯雷大主教和卡斯尔雷勋爵到诗人华兹华斯和画家特纳。沙龙的一切都很美、很精致也很有品位。可是,每天晚上8点她都会找借口退场,回到她的房间让女仆为她脱去所有衣物、沐浴,然后把她的腰束到最紧的极限——据说是13英寸。之后她会让女仆把她的腿绑起来,脚趾压到屁股上,嘴里塞上巨大的口塞。接着她命令女仆把她的双臂按照最有难度的方式绑好,那就是优雅却痛苦的‘背祷势’,然后她让女仆抛一枚硬币。如果落下来时头像那一面朝上,她就让女仆把她放到床上,阴部完全露出来便于丈夫采撷,接着女仆会在她的阴部画上两瓣化好妆的嘴唇,好让那里看起来更吸引人。但是如果硬币是背面朝上,她就会让女仆把自己支在床上,屁股朝上,然后用同样的方法装饰她的后庭。接下来她会等待——我想她等不了多久——她的丈夫进来享受他的快乐。女孩们,你能看到她的所作所为是如何完全彻底地囊括了金丝雀女士的理想。在外面,一切都是礼貌而优雅的,可是在私下里,虽然纵情肉欲却从不沉溺于罪恶。阿滕伯勒女士聪明而有教养,诙谐又彬彬有礼,但在私下里她却承受了最大程度的束缚,但是同时,借助时尚,她从来没有完全屈服。说到底,还是她——或者是那枚硬币——决定了她的丈夫可以用哪种方式享乐,也是她决定了自己要被绑成哪种姿势。她的丈夫在其中没有一点发言权,而且甚至从来不曾试图去发言。通过服从,她却实现了掌握。希望你们所有人都能从她身上受到启发学到东西,以格蕾丝·阿滕伯勒为榜样吧,不然你们的生活可能要比她糟糕得多。” ①















































  • 邮差一天送两次邮件这一非常英式的做法在我们的世界一直持续到最近才以缩减经费的名义被削减成每天一次。这是一种可悲的倒退,因为正是这样独特的习俗定义了我们英国人,我希望在安妮的世界里这样的事情不会发生。
  • 有人推测克莱尔·霍金斯的求婚信不多是因为她父亲的财富是通过制造业而非遗产继承得来的。
  • 在我们的世界里金雀花(译注:Plantagenet,因为意译更有名所以我没有用音译)家族的确拥有诺维奇公爵这一爵位直到1483年蔷薇战争后灭亡。读者或许可以因此假定在安妮的世界里蔷薇战争从未发生,或金雀花家族打败了都铎家族。


















“查瑞蒂没有来我这里,而是去了伯克翰斯德女子学校(译注:Berkhamstead School for Girls),一座著名但又不是那么著名的在伦敦周围诸郡的学府。她去了哪里,但是还是没有什么进步。然而,就在最后一年,她干了一件极其糟糕的事情。你要知道,伯克翰斯德也有男子学校,每年一次他们会组织一场盛大舞会,男女学生可以一起跳舞:这样做的目的是让他们习惯毕业后的生活。但是,就在这次舞会上查瑞蒂遇上了一个男生并且爱上了他,我想那个男生是一个航运大亨的儿子。不管怎样,也不知怎的——我当然不可能完全了解这些细节,但他们学校的警戒一定是松弛到了极点——查瑞蒂和这位年轻的男士成功地溜到了花园里,发现他们正在那里交媾的不是别人,正是伯克翰斯德的市长先生——至于他又在那里干什么,没有人确切知道,也没有人敢去问他。所以,这之后查瑞蒂的前途就算是毁了。正如你知道的,在这个国家里,想要成为新娘的女孩必须保持处子之身。现在当然了,你自己就亲身经历过——当然这事我也一个字都不会泄露——有一些手段和方法可以重塑处女膜,但是一个人永远没法重塑名誉。查瑞蒂的错不在和那个男孩交媾,而在她蠢到被人抓住交媾。她立刻就被开除了,(而那个男孩只是被罚了一记响亮的鞭挞我想),失去了一切结婚的希望,因为哪怕带着丰厚的嫁妆,也没有哪个受人尊敬的男人愿意考虑同她结婚。噢,你的继父当然努力了,但是还是没有人愿意接手。于是他放弃了,最糟糕的情况已经发生了,但是后来,他却收到了斯塔福郡伯爵的拜访。”















  • 如果有读者想在我们的世界中找到这样的尺寸的话,我相信Sabrina Sabrok的豪乳比较接近。不过,Sabrina是自愿的。
  • 这两个词在我们的世界可以理解成“显示屏”和“电脑”,尽管它们同安妮的世界里的概念并不完全一样。



































































  • 原文是俄语,Делает моя задница выглядит большой в этом?






































































































































A Different Reality: Part 2

Part 1


Chapter 3

He stood at the back of the room in the doorway and surveyed the scene before him. Standing in the centre of the room, with her back to him, was the Miss Updike. Her long, ebony sausage curls cascaded down her back and onto her shoulders, bobbing about with every movement, while her waist had never looked finer, the harsh lacing regime of the academy causing it to dive down into an elegant, narrow stem. The sky-blue evening dress that she wore was exquisite and the blue ribbons and pearls in her hair merely complimented it. He strode into the room and, when he was just behind her shoulder and could smell her perfume, announced in a quiet voice, “Miss Suzanna, how delightful to see you again!” She spun around, and her visage faced his. Casting his eye over her snow-white skin, her large, dark eyes and her inviting rosebud lips, he felt that she truly had become the vision of feminine perfection. Her lips though, when they parted, merely uttered one accusatory word, “You!” before she slumped into a faint and he caught her in his arms.

The acrid smell of the salts revived her, and she found herself lying on the couch being fanned by two maids. She glanced about her and her eyes fixed on the male who had addressed her moments before. There was no doubt about it: it was he. She knew him. Seeing her revitalised, the doctor smiled and said, “Miss Suzanna, it is so good to have you back again. Seeing me seems to have given you a shock and yet it is only a month since I went away. But then I forget; Doctor Lowe explained that you are suffering from a bout of amnesia. I must have surprised you, please, let me apologise.”

“Doctor Potter has been most concerned about you,” added Madam Rossiter. “And you should thank him; he caught you as you fell.”

“That is not Doctor Potter,” said Suzie, defiant. “He is Dave Potter. I know him.”

“Of course, you do, and my first name is David,” replied the doctor. “I have been a friend of this institution for many years. We have met many times.”

“No, not here! You’re lying! They’re all lying! I know you from there, the other place. We met there; you were a client of our company. You wanted to date me; we did go out, but you were dull and sexist, so I dumped you.”

“Oh dear,” declared Doctor Lowe mournfully, “the delusions have returned!”

The following morning, she was summoned to Madam Rossiter’s office and her gag removed. The two doctors were sitting there, and they were eager to talk about her “delusions”.

“Tell me about this other life that you imagine you lived,” said Doctor Lowe.

“I’m not imagining it; I did live it. He knows; he was there!” She would have pointed at Doctor Potter at this point but, of course, trammelled as her arms were inside her ballooning gigot sleeves, she could not.

Potter smiled as if sympathetic and then said, “Tell me, Miss Suzanna, what role did I play in this other life?”

“You know full well which role.”

“Yes, yes, but please, for the benefit of Doctor Lowe here, please explain it to us.”

“I was… I am an HR manager at Dovegate Financial Services. Dave Potter here is one of our clients. He came to the company for an event we held to encourage clients to invest in one of our new products. We shared some glasses of champagne together and he asked me out on a date. We dated a few times but did not gel. To be honest, I found you a bit sexist and dull, so I broke it off, as you well know Mr. Potter!”

“Hmm… this is very interesting,” said Lowe. “It seems, David, that our patient here has included you in her fantasy world, but it is some sort of mirror image of the real Doctor Potter.” Suzie would have objected to this, but her maid, who was standing behind her, had replaced her gag. “Yes indeed, in her hyper-liberated fantasy world, you are sexist and misogynistic whereas in reality, you are the most liberal man I’ve come across. Why, you even advocate married women being allowed to speak with males other than their husbands or fathers. Remarkable! But which psychological processes are causing this, do you think?”

“I’m unsure Obadiah, but I believe that Miss Suzanna’s case requires some extra attention. If she does not mind, I should like to talk with her further.”

“Miss Suzanna has no objections whatsoever,” replied Lowe, not consulting her at all.

From that day, Doctor David Potter became a regular feature in her life and, to be honest, she welcomed it. She would be taken out of those interminably boring sessions on wifely deportment, or relaxation times spent staring into space, and walked to his office where her gag would be removed, and he would talk to her about her other life (as he termed it), taking notes all the time. At first all she could talk about was that how he knew anyway since he was part of it and it was probably him that had brought her here (wherever here was) but, with time, she cooled and began to talk about it as if it were another time and place. He seemed especially interested in whether anyone else from her present reality had also inhabited her past and, since no one else had, why she was focussing on him. In all honesty, she did not know. He had been there then, and he was there now and that was all there was to it. He would smile as if full of psychological wisdom and she would be reminded of how patronising the old Dave Potter could be in the other life, again one of the reasons why she’d dumped him. This Dave Potter though, whilst undoubtedly a misogynist and patronising, was different. After all, everyone was misogynistic in this world and everybody patronised her or just plain ignored her, seeing her more as a pretty doll or feminine accessory to the room than a living breathing human being. This Dave Potter at least acknowledged her humanity and for that, she warmed to him, even if his presence confused her at the core of her being.

A couple of weeks after their first meeting – or at least, their first meeting in this stage of this reality – Doctor Potter suggested that he and Miss Suzanna take a walk in the grounds. Her maid smiled at this as if something special was implied but Suzie merely groaned behind her gag. Walking was a trial in the boots that she was forced to wear. As the weeks passed, the heels slowly got higher and she was now perched almost on tiptoe, teetering on fifteen-centimetre heels. Worse still, her maid had shown her the end goal: a pair of boots called en-pointe which forced the wearer to walk on their toes like a ballet dancer. They looked terrifying.

Not only were the boots a trial, but her costume made her feel vulnerable in other ways. Unable to use her arms for balance, she was petrified of falling over and so required a maid to hold her at all times, whilst the slight physical exertion coupled with her excruciatingly tight corset meant that within seconds she was panting for air and her breasts surged up and down embarrassingly. And then, to top it all (literally) whenever she left the building, she was required to wear a ridiculous bonnet with a long rim that caused her vision to be like looking through a tunnel except that, at the end of this tunnel, a thick veil was hung which reduced everything to a whitey-grey blur.

Taking hold of one of her faux arms in one hand and putting his other firmly around her waist, Doctor Potter guided Suzie out of the building and along the treacherous gravel paths that surrounded the lawns. Several times they had to stop for her to regain her breath but then, at the summer house in the shrubbery, he helped her to sit and then, much to her surprise and pleasure, flipped back the veil to give her a better view of her surroundings.

“Miss Suzanna,” he began, “I’ve brought you out here today because I want to have a special chat out of the earshot of both Madam Rossiter and Doctor Lowe. No, do not fear, I do not wish to say anything improper; but what I will say is rather eccentric. Do you know much of the world of science, Miss Suzanna?”

Suzie, who had got a double A* in her GCSE Science exams in that other reality, nodded her head.

“Excellent. Then do you know anything of dark matter?”

This time she had to shake her head.

“Well that is not to be a matter for surprise since this is a complicated subject indeed and women’s minds can easily be confused… or at least that is what my colleague Doctor Lowe insists. But to continue, dark matter is matter that exists, but we cannot detect it. Scientists know that it exists because they have done some incredibly complicated equations which prove that it is there, but it is just not detectable. Now, and you need not worry your pretty little head about this too much – and may I say how radiant you are looking this morning, Miss Suzanna? – this dark matter has caused much debate, conjecture and theorising amongst the scientific community and one theory that has come to the fore is that of parallel universes; that is to say that here, now, there is another universe that exists but we are just unaware of it. Now many – including Doctor Lowe – pooh pooh this theory, but I for one think it has merits and that is why your particular case intrigues me. You tell me that you believe this other life you have lived to be real and I believe you, but how can it have been? Unless that is, you were living in a parallel universe as this other Suzanna Lowe and then somehow, you crossed over to this reality. Does that make sense to you?”

Suzie nodded enthusiastically. This meant that she was not lying. It was an explanation that bore out her witness!

“Of course, there are many issues with the theory, namely how come you managed to cross over when no one else seems to have been able to do so and what has happened to the Miss Suzanna Updike who lived here – is she now in your other reality? And why did I appear in both worlds and what is it that is drawing us together? Many questions indeed. Anyway, I have a proposal to make. I am going to offer to Doctor Lowe and Madam Rossiter that you move into my house in order that I may explore those questions further. Do not fear, your training will not be affected and there shall be no improper behaviour, but how does that sound to you?”

In the old reality, that parallel universe in which she had once lived, Suzie would have been horrified by the thought of moving in with the patronising and sexist Dave Potter. But in this reality, the silent, restrained and modest Lady of Leisure Suzanna Updike merely nodded her assent with joy.


Chapter 4

Life changed considerably for Suzie when she moved to Doctor Potter’s house and, generally, it was for the better. Before she left the academy though, she had an unpleasant surprise. The morning before she moved out, after her morning bathing and toilette, she found herself being fitted with a strange new device. It was like a pair of underpants except that it was made out of metal and had a grille at the front through which liquids could pass through. Her maid explained that it was a chastity belt and would help ensure her womanly purity should the good doctor – who was a single man after all – be unable to control himself when confronted by her immense beauty. The inherent sexism in it all appalled her a little, but she had to admit that, trammelled as she was, she would be unable to resist any male advances, welcome or otherwise.

The chastity belt though, created problems of its own. For some reason, inside it there were a series of rubber nubs that caressed her sex continually, causing her desire to rise yet not providing any relief. To be honest, ever since she had woken up that awful morning in her sleeping sack, she had longed to touch her womanly parts and relieve her pent-up longing – being corseted and restrained only seemed to heighten it – but this brought things to an entirely new level.

Dave Potter’s house was a large dwelling some distance across town from the academy. Suzie couldn’t say how far exactly as the veil and bonnet that she’d worn for the journey had effectively blindfolded her, but she had not been in the taxi for long. In it she had her own room that was well-appointed and, most pleasingly, her regime was relaxed somewhat. Although her arms were almost continually restrained, Potter encouraged conversation at mealtimes and would often invite her to sit in the garden with him wearing not a bonnet with a veil, but instead a sunhat which was far less restrictive. Furthermore, every evening, as part of her treatment, he allowed her to have her arms freed and she would write a diary talking of her experiences in that other reality and how she felt about this new reality that she found herself in. In this she would talk about her memories from that other existence, perhaps in a parallel universe, perhaps merely in her head, and how they made living her current life more difficult. Every day Potter would read these entries and he declared that they were undoubtedly helping her to come to terms with the mental and psychological issues that she was battling. He also, patiently and slowly, explained to her, that while these delusions may seem superficially pleasing to her, in the long term she would always be happier in her current lifestyle as medical research had proved that women’s brains are wired up differently to those of menfolk and that they are patently unsuited to taking on positions of responsibility and power.

However, along with these positive developments, there were also some that were less welcome. One came on the orders of Madam Rossiter who said that there was a new fashion in arm restraint that was becoming popular and she thought that Miss Suzanna would benefit from achieving it. This was called reverse prayer and it involved having her hands palm-to-palm together as if in prayer but behind her back, brushing her neck. This position was said to improve both posture and piety, but it was awfully difficult to achieve since, once the palm-to-palm aspect had been managed, the elbows were then slowly – and painfully – drawn together. It transpired that Suzie spent much of her time restrained in this fashion – six hours per day – and she was glad indeed when her aching arms were released and laced back into their gigot sleeves.

The other change was more disconcerting than negative. After a week of treatment, Doctor Potter suggested that, in order to help her adapt to her new reality better and separate the two realities in her mind, she adopt a new name and be Suzanna no longer, but instead someone else. She could not object as she was firmly gagged and her arms locked into the agonising reverse prayer formation at the time, but the good doctor decreed that she would now be called Claudine after the character in the Colette novels (whom she’d never heard of) and so Claudine she was and to celebrate, she embroidered herself a new gag panel with Claudine Updike emblazoned upon it, surrounded by pink roses. Which was all well and good except that now the old, independent Suzie seemed even more of a distant figure, separate from the pampered feminine accessory that she had now become.

But life was not bad, and, despite his patronising airs, Claudine found herself strangely attracted to Dave Potter in a way that the old Suzie Updike never had been. Perhaps because he was the only man she ever saw, perhaps because her sex was constantly being titillated by the chastity belt or perhaps because there was some genuine attraction she could not say, but she found herself waking up in her sleeping sack after dreaming passionate and improper dreams about him whilst, as he sat talking to her in the garden, she imagined them both undressing and engaging in wild and wanton sex.

Nor too was the attraction purely one-way for about a month after her arrival in his house, a month where the tell-tale glances and subtle comments had grown daily in number, the two were out in the garden as evening was beginning and the sky had turned orange and Doctor Potter remarked on how beautiful it all was, before then adding that it was not so beautiful as her and, before she knew it, he had leaned over, removed her gag and was kissing her passionately, a kiss which she returned.

The following morning, dressed in her reverse-prayer configuration and securely gagged, she was led to Doctor Potter’s office. He saw her as she entered and bade her sit before sending the maid away. “It looks as if you are praying for forgiveness,” he said smiling weakly and indicating her restrained arms. She did not reply as she could not, so he continued: “Last night we transgressed grossly, both of us, though particularly me. You are a woman and thus weak of mind and body, but I was in a position of responsibility and I should not have done that. I am sorry. Unfortunately, though, sorry is not enough. Having transgressed thus, it is now inappropriate for you to stay under my roof. I am not to be trusted and you are a temptation too great for any man to resist. So, you must return to the academy.”

At these words she shook her head, but the doctor did not seem to notice. Instead, he continued: “However, there is another option. My feelings for you which I expressed so inappropriately yesterday evening were genuine and I think… nay, hope, that the fact that you responded so eagerly, that they are reciprocated. Therefore, I have a question to ask: Claudine Updike, will you marry me? That way we can sate those feelings legally and correctly whilst living together more fully and not being wrenched apart by the conventions of this world?”

Marry Dave Potter, the very man whom she had rejected in another world not so long ago. And yet, what better option did she have? Who else had shown her any understanding? And whoever she chose, she would still be treated as a lady of leisure, a pretty feminine accessory with no purpose in life beyond reflecting her spouse’s wealth and trumpeting her dependence and helplessness?

Claudine Updike did return to the academy that evening, but it was so that she could be prepared for her wedding in a month’s time rather than in disgrace for her transgressions. The other students as well as her maid and Madam Rossiter who overjoyed for her and started planning her gown and giving her wifely instructions on everything from after-dinner conversation (when possible) to affairs of the night (husbands appreciate it if you wake them every morning by sucking on their tool. An accomplished wife can achieve the waking and the eruption of seed simultaneously).

Even exhortations to perform oral sex however, were nothing compared to the shock of what Madam Rossiter had to announce the following day.

“Your fiancé has provided me with his list of modifications. Now, I appreciate that this is what sent you over the edge last time, but these are far less severe, rather mild in my opinion.”

Claudine hadn’t got a clue what she was referring to, but during their free conversation that evening, Petronella explained: “All men specify modifications that they want performing on their spouses before marriage. It is so that they can personalise us, make us unique and partially designed by them. It is a great honour!”

A great honour it may have been, but that evening as she lay sweating in her sleeping sack, Claudine’s mind tossed over the implications of what she had been told. She was to have her body, her very being, physically altered for the pleasure of a man. Her breasts, which she had never regarded as being overly small, were to be pumped full of silicon or something purely to please her fiancé and she, the owner of those breasts, had no say in the matter. As she lay there in the clammy darkness, the old Suzie reasserted herself over the new Claudine and she resisted both mentally and physically, tossing and writhing, fighting to get out. But the strong leather of the sack held firm as it was designed to do and, eventually, sometime in the dark hours, she passed away exhausted and drenched in sweat, all resistance having proved futile.

The following day when she was dressed in her finest outdoor gown incorporating the reverse-prayer configuration (declared de rigueur up until her wedding by Madam Rossiter) and taken to the hospital. There, she was shown into a consulting room and a male doctor explained her forthcoming modifications to her. More humiliating than that, without asking her, he reached forward, opened up her dress and then loosened the top of her stays, taking out her breasts, squeezing and fondling them mos inappropriately. Claudine would have resisted but her costume trammelled her completely and she was still exhausted from the exertions of the night and so she just sat passively and listened like a dutiful maiden should do. The doctor explained that 300cc implants were to be added to each breast, taking out examples of said implants and demonstrating what her new, huge tits would look like. And, as if this were not bad enough, he then proceeded to state that her lips would also be collagen enhanced. Finally, the doctor noted with surprise that no work was being done on her bottom, but then ended with the humiliating line, “Although it is excessively large without work, so I suppose none is necessary.” An hour later she was put under anaesthesia and her world went black. When she awoke, her lips were plumped and puffy whilst her breasts had been replaced by two heavy, large spherical balls of flesh that defied gravity. Everyone pronounced them to be great improvements although she was far from sure. When she saw herself in the mirror, the old Suzie from that other world seemed further away than ever, unrecognisable almost, and in her place a beautiful doll with unnatural proportions named Claudine stood looking back. She shivered.

Following that day Claudine’s life became a bleary whirl of wedding preparations. She was measured and remeasured for her gown and her corseting regime intensified in order for her to achieve the seemingly impossible measurement of 45cm for her wedding day. This led to her feeling continually weak and on the verge of fainting or, as Madam Rossiter termed it, “delightfully fragile and feminine”. Coupled with the strictures of her costume, she was also subjected to endless lessons on the duty of being a wife. Since she would be living as a Lady of Leisure and thus unable to cook and clean for her husband (who could afford maids to do such things), her lessons consisted solely of making conversation with him (which largely seemed to be how to praise him and caress his ego continually) and how to satisfy him sexually which the emphasis being purely on the latter. Madam Rossiter explained that there were two kinds of wife: a pleasure wife and a breeding wife, the former existing solely to bring her husband sexual pleasure and the latter to bear his children. “Most men keep their spouses as pleasure wives during their youthful years, before then allowing them to graduate on to the honour of breeding,” she explained, “although some older gentlemen with heirs already may marry a younger wife purely to give them pleasure in their old age. But whatever the case, pleasure or breeding, what you need to understand is that your bedtime performance is now central to your entire existance.”

Now Claudine was a virgin as all unmarried girls should be, but, perversely, the Suzie of her delusions, was quite sexually experienced and, somehow, these false memories kept crowding in during the lessons which, coupled with the titillating effect of her chastity belt and the fact that the same belt ensured she could gain son relief, made her feel constantly aroused and horny. Oral sex, as promised, was a major factor from the beginning, with it being made clear that this form of satisfaction would be one that she would be providing regularly for her husband. Most embarrassingly, Madam Rossiter had Cecille, one of the maids, brought into the lessons and stripped down to her underwear, before having a replica of a male tool strapped around her. Claudine then had to kneel in front of the passive maid and suck on this faux member, while Madame Rossiter critiqued her performance. It was highly embarrassing, and shame-making and she felt like curling up and dying the first time it took place. Equally embarrassing was that, at the end of every meal, in honour of the fact that she was soon to be married, she was forced to drink a small cup of “spouse’s port”, a salty, sticky liquid which Claudine recognised from her days as Suzie as being male semen. She had to imbue this in front of the others, swallowing every last drop and then licking out the cup, after everything else and no liquid was allowed afterwards so that the delicious tastes of the meals were always eradicated by the disgusting salty semen which stayed in her mouth for hours afterwards. It was horrible, but what made it worse was how the other students kept asking her what it was like and Petronella was even so bold as to whisper to her to keep a little on her tongue and then later, when they were relaxing, she would kiss her deeply so that she too could receive a harbinger of the “joys awaiting her with marriage”.

The French kissing was another aspect of her training and, to be honest, was the most pleasant of all. In her heart of hearts, Claudine – well, Suzie – had always quite liked women as much as men, and now, as part of her training to satisfy Doctor Potter after marriage, she was made to practise her kissing techniques with the other students. Every afternoon, their gags were removed, and she was made to lean into Petronella, Henrietta or Clarissa (Carmelita had got married and left while Claudine had been at the good doctor’s home and these two newcomers were her fellow students now) and let their tongues explore each other’s mouths. It was a heavenly feeling, particularly with the young Clarissa whom Claudine found she was developing a bit of a crush on, but alas, while it aroused and excited her, her restrained arms and locked away sex meant that no release was possible and so she went to bed every night her head filled with visions of lesbian lust and no way of alleviating it. It was like being taken to the swimming pool every day but never being allowed to dive in.

But diving she soon would be, for the days ticked by and, a month after she returned to Madam Rossiter’s, Claudine found herself released from her sleeping sack at the ungodly hour of five. She was thoroughly showered and shaved down below before then beginning the slow process of dressing her for her nuptials. The stays could not be laced down to the agonising size of 45cm in one go and so it was done in stages, each one causing her to faint right away. Whilst that was happening, her feet were laced into beautiful but precariously white-leather, knee-high en-pointe boots while her arms were twisted into the now too-familiar reverse prayer configuration. Eventually, her enormous new breasts surging up and down for air, her tottering about, shifting her weight from one tortured set of toes to the other, the vast white gown was lowered over her, her curls reset for a final time and then veil after veil pulled down over her face until finally, blinded completely and entirely helpless, she was led away to church to become Mrs. David Potter.


Six months later

Dave Potter watches on the video screen as his wife is prepared for their nightly congress. He outlined to her on their first day that he wishes to use her as a pleasure wife first before letting her become a breeding wife as he is in no rush to have children and they should both enjoy their youth whilst they still have it. Certainly, he is enjoying it, although for her, he is less certain.

He instructed the maid that he wished to use her bottom this evening. Her wonderfully large and peachy buttocks were what very first attracted him to her at that party at Dovegate Financial Services almost a year earlier. He’d always had a thing for a bubble butt and Suzie Updike had one to die for. He’d sworn then that he would have her and had been most put out when she’d rejected him.

Dave had been an aficionado of the Lady of Leisure ideal for almost ten years, after having read stories about it on the internet. He’d assumed them to all be fiction but then had received an anonymous email one day talking about an exclusive secret society of rich men that aims to make the ideal a reality. The email included links to pictures and videos of ladies living – or being forced to live – the Lady of Leisure ideal. He was curious and wished to learn more and so replied. Around a week later a meeting was set up with William Mogg, one of the elders of the society who explained more. He stated that they had been formed some ten years before after several gentlemen had declared – and explored – their fantasies over brandy one evening. Initial test subjects (Romanian apparently) had been procured from the black market and, after some success, the Society for the Advancement of the Lady of Leisure Ideal had been established. They had then purchased a large swathe of land on New Zealand’s South Island and there they had proceeded to gather their ladies of leisure in a utopian community named Deportment. Dave had joined the society straightaway but had visited Deportment frequently but had never seriously considered forcing one of his own girlfriends into the Lady of Leisure ideal. But then when Suzie Updike had rejected him then he knew that it was time for his fantasies to be realised.

He’d invented the alternative reality/ amnesia thing out of a sense of playful cruelty, even though it wasn’t easy to achieve (erasing that ankle tattoo had taken an expert several weeks). He knew that she would be suffering, doubting her own sanity and longing for what she had lost yet could never prove had existed, but then that was only right and proper. After all, she had rejected him and so deserved to suffer. He’d watched with glee as the haughty HR ice queen had been reduced to an ornamental doll and then lavished every moment when she lived in his house and he pumped all her food full of strong aphrodisiacs and yet allowed her no sexual release. It was little wonder that she’d agreed to marriage with a man she had recently hated and sentenced herself to a lifetime as a restrained Victorian doll. Then he had let his imagination run wild. He’d fallen in love with Suzie Updike but now he could create something even better, an idealised version of her with a prettier name, more kissable lips and far, far, far superior breasts that acted as his pillow on all those nights when he wasn’t using her magnificent buttocks for the same purpose. Indeed, the only thing that had not needed altering at all was that wonderful arse but even that he improved, ordering it to be filled permanently with a little ivory plug decorated with a diamond on the end that twinkled at him whenever he gazed upon it. Indeed, the only time it was ever removed was when that arse was being prepared to be plundered… like now.

Dave knew that she hated the anal sex; that she found it humiliating and unsatisfying. But he also knew that she had come to accept that she was merely his accessory these days with no mind of her own and no say over her life. She had reached a kind of impasse now, an acceptance and resignation and so Dave was thinking about upping the ante, perhaps leaving a photograph from that other reality lying around or making a comment that could hint that he knew the truth too. That would bring back the mental torment and doubts. If done carefully, it could be exquisite.

He watched as the maid supported her wonderfully corseted waist of 45cm by stacking pillows beneath it so that her beautiful bottom was on full display whilst her breasts ballooned below her, squashing themselves against the bed. The camera also picked up her groans, made from behind her mouth gagged with the words ‘Property of Doctor David Potter’ that she herself had embroidered straight after their marriage. It was a delightful scene and he was ready to make the most of it. He got up from his seat and made his way happily to the marital bedchamber.


Copyright © 2019, Dave Potter

Die thrakische Göttin

Die thrakische Göttin

von Dave Potter

English version: The Thracian Goddess

Diana Filkova seufzte. Nicht mehr lange muss sie es ertragen und alles wird in Ordnung sein.

Sie lebte mit ihrem Partner, dem zwanzig Jahre älteren Senior Mark Vogel zusammen. Sie sind seit zwei Jahren ein Paar, seit sie ihn bei einem von ihrer Universität organisierten Empfang für angehende Historiker getroffen hatte. Zu dieser Zeit war sie auf der Suche nach einem Sommerpraktikum und es hatte einfach bei ihnen geklickt. Er war attraktiv, lustig, charmant und von absolut einladendem Wesen. Auch bot er ihr einen Job an.

“Ich bin Techniker, aber ich habe schon lange eine Leidenschaft für Geschichte. Ich lebe auf der griechischen Insel Draxos und sponsere dort die Ausgrabung einer altgriechischen Tempelanlage. Du scheinst genau die Art von Mädchen zu sein, die wir vor Ort gebrauchen könnten. Bist du interessiert?”

Interessiert? Natürlich war sie das! Den Lohn, den er ihr anbot, war exorbitant im Vergleich zu dem, was sie in Bulgarien bekommen konnte, und diese Anstellung würde ihren Lebenslauf verbessern und ihre Karrierchancen vergolden. Also nahm sie an und unterschrieb beim Abendessen. An diesem Abend unterschrieb sie leichtsinnig auch noch eine ganze Menge mehr.

Sie liebte Mark natürlich nicht. Er war alt genug, um ihr Vater zu sein! Aber er war in Ordnung, es war mit ihm auszukommen, extrem großzügig mit seinem Geld und sie hatte keinen Freund, wie er es war. Außerdem lebte er in einer riesigen, luxuriösen Villa auf einer Privat-Insel direkt vor der Küste von Draxos, mit einer kompletten Spa-Einrichtung, einem Swimmingpool und Terrasse mit herrlichem Blick auf die Ägäis.

Ihr Plan war einfach: Bei ihm bleiben, bis sie die Uni beendet hatte, alle Geschenke und Geld,das er ihr gab, sammeln und dann, wenn sie ihren Abschluss gemacht hatte, alles zu verwenden, um für ihren MA zu bezahlen,den sie sich sonst nie hätte leisten können.

Sie hatte sich im September zum MA angemeldet. Nicht, dass sie es Mark gesagt hätte; schließlich, warum die Feiertage allein verbringen? Nein, sie würde ihm nächste Woche eine Notiz hinterlassen, nachdem sie ihn verlassen hatte.

Nur manchmal wünschte sie sich, dass die Tage viel schneller voranschreiten würden. Er fing an, sie zu langweilen, und seine Tatzen an ihrem Körper im Bett waren nur noch lästig. Außerdem konnte er manchmal ganz besessen von einer Idee werden, wie zum Beispiel heute. Er hatte darauf bestanden, dass sie nach Athen fliegen, um einzukaufen. Aber es war nicht die Art von Shopping, die sie genoss, sondern es ging um den Kauf von Haushaltsdekorationen. Gähn! Dennoch müssen wohl seine Bedürfnisse berücksichtigt werden.

Als sie in der Stadt ankamen, nahmen sie ein Taxi zum Studio eines Giorgos Hatziastros, einem Töpfer von Rang, der anscheinend ein Freund von Markus war.

“Er hat in der Vergangenheit für mich gearbeitet und es war immer auf höchstem Niveau”, sagte Mark. Diana schaute gelangweilt aus dem Fenster.

Im Studio begrüßten sich die beiden Männer wie lange vermisste Brüder. Mark stellte dann Diana vor und machte zu ihrer Überraschung eine Ankündigung:

“Ich möchte meinem Liebling etwas ganz Besonderes kaufen, nicht nur das übliche Schmuckstück, sondern etwas von künstlerischem und finanziellem Wert, um unsere tiefe Liebe zueinander zu symbolisieren. Sie bildet sich zur Archäologin aus und so dachte ich mir, warum soll nicht Giorgos ihr einem einzigartigen, personalisierten Topf in der altgriechischen Tradition machen?”

Bei diesen Worten schmolz Dianas Herz. Bei der Antwort von Giorgos ging es fast in den Overdrive.

“Das ist in Ordnung, natürlich mein Freund, aber sie sind nicht billig. Mein altgriechisches Werk beginnt bei 10.000 Euro pro Stück.”

10.000 Euro! Das waren die gesamten Kosten für die MA!

“Der Preis ist kein Faktor, sondern nur die Qualität. Wie du sehen kannst, ist sie meine griechische Göttin und warum also nicht eine griechische Vase aus ihr machen.”

“Vergib mir, dass ich dir widersprochen habe”, sagte Giorgos, “aber ich spüre, dass die junge Dame keine Griechin ist. Vielleicht auf dem Balkan, aber griechisch, nein.”

“Das stimmt, ich bin Bulgarin aus Plovdiv.”

“Dann darf ich einen Vorschlag machen. Da die Dame keine Griechin ist, ist vielleicht eine griechische Vase unangebracht, aber Sie sind Bulgarin, ja, und die Bulgaren sind die Nachkommen, sagen einige, der alten Thraker, ein ebenso zivilisiertes Volk. Warum also nicht stattdessen ein Design im thrakischen Stil ausprobieren?”

Diese Worte veranlassten Diana, diesen Mann umso mehr zu mögen. Die meisten Griechen verachten ihre nördlichen Nachbarn, aber er sah ihren alten Ruhm und ihre gegenwärtige Armut.

“Das wäre wunderbar!” antwortete sie.

Sie betrachteten einige Entwürfe und arbeiteten etwas aus, basierend auf einem Topfdesign aus schwarz bemalter Keramik mit Blattgoldmotiven. Diese erzählten die Geschichte eines alten thrakischen Königs, aber Giorgos schlug vor, sie in die Geschichte der Zauberin “Thrakien” zu verwandeln, der Gründerin der alten Zivilisation, die als Tochter des Ozeans und Schwester Europas gilt.

“Und wir werden ihr dein Gesicht geben, damit du wirklich wie eine mythische Göttin aussiehst, die das Herz meines Freundes mit ihrem Zauber verzaubert hat”, fügte der Töpfer hinzu.

Nach dem Besuch beim Töpfer brachte Mark sie dann zu einem angesehenen Schneider, der ein ganz besonderes Outfit für sie anfertigte, zeitgenössisch, aber auf der Grundlage alter thrakischer Mode, alles fließende Kleider, die sich auf ihrer Haut prächtig anfühlten. Dann brachte er sie zum größten Haarstylisten der Stadt, der ihr Haar – vorher ein einfacher Pferdeschwanz – wie das einer thrakischen Adligen herrichtete.

 So, wie eine Göttin aussehend, wie Mark glaubte, dinierten sie in einem feinen Restaurant, bevor sie sich für einen Liebeskuss in ihr Fünf-Sterne-Hotel zurückzogen. Obwohl Mark im Bett langweilig war, weil er sich ein wenig schuldig für die bevorstehende Täuschung fühlte, ließ Diana ihn mit ihr tun, was immer er wollte. In dieser Nacht schien er sich übermäßig viel Zeit zu nehmen, um ihre Beine zu streicheln und ihren wohlgeformten Arsch zu streicheln.

Und als sie mit dem Liebesspiel fertig waren, bestellten sie Wein, und nachdem sie ihr Glas ausgetrunken hatte, fiel Diana in einen tiefen, zufriedenen Schlaf.

Als sie erwachte, wusste Diana, dass etwas nicht stimmte. Sie öffnete die Augen, aber es kam kein Licht herein. Nicht einmal ein Spalt. Und als sie versuchte, sich zu bewegen, reagierte ihr Körper irgendwie nicht. Sie wollte schreien, aber sie erkannte, dass etwas – es fühlte sich an wie eine Art Stange – in ihrem Mund steckte, und alles, was herauskam, war eine mmphf. Langsam gewann die Angst die Oberhand.

Dann, aus der Dunkelheit heraus, kam eine beruhigende Stimme. “Guten Morgen, Liebling. Ich hoffe, du hast gut geschlafen.”

Es war Mark. Sie stöhnte wieder und er sprach noch einmal. “Du versuchst zu sprechen, oder? Nun, das ist jetzt nicht möglich, da du einen Knebel im Mund hast. Ich werde ihn bald entfernen, aber zuerst lasse ich dich an einen besseren Ort bringen.

Und sie fühlte, wie sie sich bewegte. Ihr Körper, der völlig reaktionslos war, wurde angehoben und getragen. Doch sie fühlte nicht, dass irgendwelche Hände sie berührten. Es war seltsam. Tatsächlich fühlte sie sich irgendwie eingeschlossen. Aber nicht alles von ihr. Sie konnte den Wind auf ihrem Gesicht, ihren Brüsten und ihrem Geschlechtsteil spüren. Der Rest wurde jedoch irgendwie bedeckt.

Sie wurde hingestellt und sie fühlte, wie Mark sich ihr näherte. Er küsste sie leicht auf ihre Stirn und tat dann etwas an ihren Augen. Sofort kam Licht herein. Sie blinzelte und ihre Augen stellten sich darauf ein. Sie saß auf dem Balkon ihres Hauses in Draxos, auf dem sie auf das blaue Wasser der Ägäis blickte. Es war keine Wolke in Sicht und in der Ferne konnte sie das weiße Dreieck des Segels einer Yacht erkennen.

“Die Ursache für deine Blindheit waren dies”, sagte Mark. Er hielt ein Paar Kontaktlinsen in der Handfläche. Sie waren total schwarz. Jeder, der sie trägt wäre blind . Aber wozu….?

“Ich habe ein paar Änderungen vorgenommen”, sagte er lächelnd. Und dann drehte er sie um, um sie vor einen Spiegel in voller Länge zu stellen. Was sie sah, betäubte sie fast. Noch immer lächelnd, nahm er ihr den Knebel aus dem Mund, der sich als groß und penisförmig erwies.

“Was zum Teufel hast du mit mir gemacht?”, schrie sie.

“Ich habe dir eine Brustvergrößerungspendiert, wie versprochen”, antwortete er.

Mark erinnerte sie an die von ihr erwähnte Brustkorrektur. Diana mochte ihre Titten, aber sie waren ziemlich klein und ein wenig schlaff. Doch jetzt waren sie zwei pralle Kugeln, die auf ihrer Brust ragten. Oder zumindest, von dort, wo ihre Brust hätte sein sollen.

Oh ja, die Brustvergrößerung war das geringste ihrer Probleme.

Sie war in dem Topf, den sie in Auftrag gegeben hatten. Ja, das ist richtig: Eingehüllt in diese Vase, ihr Kopf ragte aus der Oberseite und ihre Brüste drückten sich aus zwei Fenstern auf der Vorderseite, während es darunter ein weiteres, kleineres Fenster gab, durch das ihre entblößte Muschi und ihr Anus zu sehen waren.

“Ich habe die Brüste machen lassen, nachdem du eingelocht wurdest. Ich denke, sie sehen besser aus als je zuvor, obwohl es mir leid tut, wenn die Passform jetzt ein wenig eng sein sollte”, fuhr Mark fort und sprach weiterhin über ihre gewaltigen Titten.

“Vergiss meine Brüste! Was hast du mit dem Rest von mir gemacht? Warum kann ich meine Arme und Beine nicht fühlen oder bewegen?”

“Oh, weil sie nicht mehr da sind. Sie waren die ersten Dinge, die der Chirurg entfernt hat. Dann schnitt er dich auf und entfernte die nicht vitalen Organe und alle deine Knochen außer der Wirbelsäule. Deine gesamte Körpergröße ist jetzt mit deinem Kopf vergleichbar, so dass du dich schön eng in deinen Topf einfügen kannst. Gefällt es dir, wie es geworden ist? Giorgos hat gute Arbeit geleistet, nicht wahr?”

Diana stand unter Schock. “Aber… warum? Warum bin ich in einem Topf?”

“Weil ich glaube, dass Frauen in ihnen hübscher aussehen. Außerdem ist es viel unwahrscheinlicher, dass Topfmädchen ihre zukünftigen Ehepartner verlassen.” Er sah sie ernst an. “Ich kenne deine Pläne und Absichten. Ich war dein Sugar-Daddy, nützlich, um für deinen bevorstehenden MA zu bezahlen. Nicht, dass du das jetzt noch schaffen würdest; denn was nützt eine Archäologin ohne Gliedmaßen? Nein, ich hätte dich nie eingetopft, wenn du mir treu geblieben wärst. Aber komm schon, Diana, hast du wirklich geglaubt, dass ein Typ, der in der Technik arbeitet, sich nicht in deine E-Mails und sozialen Medien hackt?”

“Wie kannst du es wagen! Ich werde….”

“Du wirst ruhig bleiben”, antwortete er und setzte ihr den Knebel wieder ein. Es gab absolut nichts, was sie tun konnte, um ihn aufzuhalten. Dann nahm er zu ihrem Entsetzen die Kontaktlinsen wieder auf und setzte sie ihr wieder ein. Ihre Welt tauchte in Schwärze. Zum Schweigen gebracht, geblendet und unbeweglich. Es war wie ihr Abstieg in die Hölle.

“Lass mich dir sagen, wie das funktioniert”, fuhr Marks Stimme fort. “Du bist jetzt mein Potgirl, meine thrakische Göttin. Du musst hier für den Rest deiner Tage leben und deine Zeit in entspanntem Luxus auf dem Balkon oder in einem Zimmer verbringen. Du wirst von deinem Dienstmädchen versorgt werden. Ein großer Vorteil des heutigen Lebens in Griechenland ist der stetige Zustrom illegaler Einwanderer. Das Mädchen, das ich für dich habe, ist Sudanese. Sie spricht kein Wort Englisch und kann nicht weglaufen. Sie wird sich um deine Bedürfnisse kümmern, außer um die wichtigsten….”

Er schwieg und sie fühlte, wie sein Finger über ihre Brustwarzen streichten und dann ihren Kitzler berührte. Sie erschauderte vor Entsetzen und Freude. “Nämlich deine sexuellen Bedürfnisse. Du bist immer noch meine Freundin, wir haben uns nie getrennt. Ich werde weiterhin dein Partner sein und dir vielleicht eines Tages sogar meine Hand für die Ehe reichen. Wir könnten sogar Kinder haben, weil ich deine Eier gerettet habe; alles, was wir brauchen, ist ein williger Ersatz und, wie gesagt, ein stetiger Strom von Migranten…. Aber du musst bei all dem bereit sein. Ich werde mich dir nie aufdrängen, noch werde ich missbräuchliche Sprache oder Verhaltensweisen von dir ertragen. Deshalb bist du jetzt geknebelt und geblendet. Wenn du dich schlecht benimmst, wirst du das eine oder andere ertragen müssen. Wenn du in meine Zunge beißt, wenn wir uns küssen, oder in meinen Schwanz, wenn du mir einen Blowjob gibst, dann werden die Linsen für Monate drin sein, Ohrstöpsel auch. Aber benimm dich, paar dich mit mir, unterhalte dich mit mir, und du wirst belohnt werden und nicht nur mit Sex. Es kann hier draußen auf dieser Insel ziemlich einsam werden, aber ich habe Freunde mit Partnern, Potgirls wie du. Tatsächlich wünscht Giorgos verzweifelt seine Frau Melissa mitzunehmen. Das kann deine erste Belohnung für gutes Verhalten sein. Denkt darüber nach, meine thrakische Göttin.”

Und mit diesen Worten ließ er sie dort zurück, leere Augen, die ins nichts starrten, Mund geknebelt, sie war jetzt nichts weiter als eine elegante Haushaltsdekoration in der Luxusvilla von Mark Vogel.

Als seine Schritte in der Ferne verklangen, erkannte Diana, dass sie viel Zeit zum nachdenken hatte, um sich anzupassen. Dicke Tränen fielen von ihren Augen über ihren Topf. Sie liefen wie Regentropfen über die glänzende Oberfläche, bis sie auf ihren hervorstehenden Brüsten trockneten.

A Different Reality: Part 1

A Different Reality

by Dave Potter

Chapter 1

Darkness. Pitch-black. That was all there was when she woke up. She opened her eyes, but no light streamed in. she tried to move but found that she was restrained somehow. All over. Her body seemed encased somehow, squeezing in on all sides. Something was seriously wrong. She screamed but only a groan came out. There was something lodged in her mouth. She screamed again and tried to move. She could wiggle about a bit but that was all. It was as if she had been buried alive. Had she been buried alive? No! She could not die here, now! She was young, with her whole life ahead of her. She screamed and wiggled again. She carried on doing it for dear life. And then, out of the black, light streamed in and she was reborn.

“Miss Suzanna, what are you doing screaming and creating a disturbance like that. It is most unladylike. Madam will be displeased.”

Suzanna. Who on earth called her Suzanna? She hadn’t been called that since she was a child by her great aunt. Normally it was Suzie or just Suze. Suzanna. She didn’t recognise the voice either. As her eyes adjusted to the light she saw a figure leaning over her. She was dressed in a maid’s outfit and she didn’t recognise her at all. But she was smiling, and she laid a cool flannel on Suzie’s forehead. “Now, now, Miss Suzanna, did you have a bad dream…?”

The maid released her from the cocoon that had enclosed her. Looking down, she saw that she had been tightly laced into a large, black leather bag the size of a slumbering human. Her body was covered in sweat from her confinement, but that was not all. A large gag was stuffed into her mouth and a white cotton shift covered her body. Around her middle, squeezing her tightly, was a corset. A corset?! WTF??!!

When her hands were free she fumbled at the gag that was filling her mouth. Seeing her desire, the maid helped. When it was removed her jaw ached from being forced open wide so long. Her throat was dry but she spoke anyway. “Where am I? What is happening?”

“You’re in your bed at home at Madam Rossiter’s Academy, Miss Updike,” replied the maid.

“You know my name? Who are you? How do you know me? What’s happening? What is this place?” Her eyes darted wildly from side to side. The maid, however, merely looked on her with concern and pity.

“Oh dear, Miss Suzanna, I fear the events of last evening may have left a damaging effect on your mind. I must inform Madam Rossiter. She may have to call for Doctor Lowe.”

“What do you mean, the events of last evening?”

But the maid was gone, leaving her all alone and confused.

She returned with another figure. It was a middle-aged woman dressed in a large, frilly, Victorian-style dress with ridiculously large puff sleeves all in a deep red. She had a stern look on her face and came straight up to the confused Suzie who was sitting on the bed still in a daze.

“The servant tells me that you seem to be somewhat disorientated Miss Suzanna. Please, I do not have the time for this sort of immature joking about and I shall punish you…”

“Who are you?”


“Who are you and what am I doing here? I need to return… home. I need to go home; I have things to do and…”

“I told you ma’am, she’s all confused and befuddled and…”

“Yes, yes, Sykes, I can see that. Now, let me handle this. Miss Suzanna, do you honestly not know who I am?”

“Of course not. I’ve never seen you before in my life. How do you know my name anyway…?”

“Miss Suzanna, I am Madam Rossiter, your teacher…”

“Teacher? Whoever you are, I am twenty-five and certainly not at school anymore. I am a businesswoman, not a student and I have things to do, I…”

“Twenty-five? Miss Suzanna, last night was your twenty-first birthday. It was also the night when Lord Roehampton proposed to you. Surely you must recall Lord Roehampton…?”

“Are you mad? My life is not like some episode of Pride & Prejudice. I don’t know any lords and nor has anyone proposed to me of late.” She stopped herself. Actually, there was one guy who would have done; he was besotted with her, but she’d given him the boot a month back. “I don’t have time for this, get me out of here, wherever the fuck it is and back to…”

“Miss Suzanna, your language!”

“Get me home, bitch! Is that language enough for you?!”

“But Miss Suzanna, you are home! This school is your home these days.”

“And you’re mad as a hatter. How can this be my home? I’m a twenty-five-year-old HR executive, not Elizabeth bloody Bennett.”

“Miss Suzanna, desist! I have no idea who this Miss Bennett is that you refer to, but I do know that, judging by the current evidence, if anyone around here is mad, it is not me but you. Think about it! You are lying in your bed in my establishment where you were put to sleep by your maid last night, wearing the clothing that I provided, as you have done for the previous two years. You suffered a shock last night, that much I grant you and it has obviously unbalanced your mind, but one thing is clear is that, if madness is to be blamed, which individual would you point the finger at as being the victim?”

And, sitting there on that bed surrounded by all these extras from an Austen drama, wearing a corset herself, she could not find a suitable answer.


Chapter 2

Her name is Miss Suzanna Updike and she is twenty-one years old. She is currently living in Madam Rossiter’s Academy for Orphaned Young Ladies. She is an orphan because her parents died five years ago in an horrific house fire. That bit she really struggled to believe but then they showed her photographs to prove it.

Being of prime marital age and still a virgin (again, this was proved to her in a humiliating test performed by Doctor Lowe), she is a ripe candidate for marriage. Prior to the evening before the morning when she woke up having completely lost her memory, she had been courting a certain Lord Roehampton. At a soiree arranged in honour of her birthday by the academy, he had proposed to her. She had neither accepted nor rejected the proposal, seemingly overwhelmed by it. Madam Rossiter had taken her to one side and strongly urged her to accept since Lord Roehampton, despite his advanced years, was an excellent match and was extremely wealthy. She had never shown any enthusiasm towards his romantic advances but, conversely, had never been the rebellious type either so, silently, she had acquiesced. This had pleased His Lordship immensely and so he had removed her gag to kiss her passionately, an experience which, according to Petronella, one of the other orphans, she had endured passively. Then, His Lordship, emboldened by achieving his dream, had brought out a document that he had had made. It detailed all the modifications that he would be blessing her with after marriage and included computer-generated images of her future look. Apparently, even according to Madam Rossiter, these were “a trifle extreme” and, upon seeing the pictures of her form blessed with enormous lips and breasts three times larger than her head, she had flipped, shouted and screamed at her fiancé in a most unladylike way and then attempted to run away from the party – an impossibility, of course, in her fashionable attire – and so, having failed in that course of action, had fainted on the spot. Horrified and appalled, Lord Roehampton had declared the engagement terminated despite Madam Rossiter’s finest efforts and so, when she did come around with the help of smelling salts, Miss Suzanna was bundled off to bed straightaway, her night and prospects ruined by her unladylike behaviour. It simply couldn’t get worse.

Except that it did. Because in the morning she woke up with no recollection of her life. The mental stress had erased her brain.

That, on its own, was bad enough, but for Suzie, it got worse. What was most painful was that, instead of her life being a blank slate, ready to be refilled by her teacher and companions, instead she had very vivid memories of a totally different life entirely. In that reality, she also Suzanna Updike, but she was twenty-five instead of twenty-two and she was no virgin. Nor too was she an orphan or a student in some weird ladies’ academy, but instead she was the HR manager in a financial company of some reputation. She was an intelligent, independent and resourceful young woman who, being blessed with good looks (although she had always been a tad embarrassed about her large bottom) had no shortage of male admirers. Admirers that she usually batted away disinterestedly.

How come these “memories” of a life that, according to all those around her and the evidence that was laid before her, never existed, filled her head? And not just that; they were so vivid and real. She could not believe that they were false and so, instead, merely thought that they had kidnapped her somehow and were lying to her to make her accept this new reality. Yet whenever she’d thought of something that would prove the truth of her memories, she was defeated. Like when she remembered the tattoo that she’d had done on her left-hand ankle. Madam Rossiter assured her that a real lady would never dream of having something so uncouth as a tattoo, so they rolled down her stocking to reveal the ankle and, lo and behold, there was no tattoo nor trace of there ever being one.

Yet the memories seemed so real and while they filled her head, adjusting was almost impossible. The problem was that in the reality she thought she’d inhabited, she had been a working woman, independent financially, mentally and physically. In this weird world she now found herself in though, all those freedoms had gone, and, in their place, she found herself as dependent on others as a young child.

To start with, she had no money whatsoever. Ok, so that was a lie. She actually possessed millions, left to her by her late parents as their only child. But being a female, she was deemed to be irresponsible and so the funds were held in a trust administered by Doctor Lowe on behalf of Madam Rossiter. They were used to pay for her schooling and purchase items of clothing decreed by her teacher. Suzie herself had no say in any of it.

And then mentally. She was continually told that, as a young lady, her mind was easily confused, easily led, unstable. Every day she faced a barrage of propaganda regarding ladylike behaviour and the appropriate conduct of a wife. She had little opportunity to contest it and no opportunity to get away.

For the third of her limitations, the physical, was the most trying of all. In Madam Rossiter’s Academy, she was being trained to become was called a ‘Lady of Leisure’, a lady of importance who trumpets her station by being physically restrained at all times and thus largely helpless and dependent on others, namely servants.

Sitting on the couch, Suzie takes stock of all those restrictions currently curtailing her body. She is dressed in a beautiful Victorian-style gown of cream silk printed with a pattern of tiny red roses. With some fifteen petticoats supporting the wide skirts, that alone is restrictive enough, but by far its most noticeable aspect is the tiny waist, achieved by twenty-four-hour corseting or “tight-lacing” as Madam Rossiter refers to it. What this means is that she is always short of breath, always feeling weak and light-headed, never hungry and always, always aware of the crushing presence around her middle.

Subconsciously, Suzie tries to move her hands to her middle to try and relieve some of that awful pressure, but then is sharply reminded of how impossible this now is. Her gown, like that of Madam Rossiter and all ladies of fashion, incorporates two ridiculous ballooning puff sleeves (called ‘gigot’ apparently), out of which the lower part of her arms and hands – gloved in appropriate cream leather of course – protrude. The sleeves actually have an internal steel framework construction to achieve the ballooning look, but that is not the worst of them for in fact, the gloved hands that protrude from them are not her real hands at all, but instead handmade wooden replicas! Instead, to trumpet her helplessness, her real arms and hands are folded up inside the sleeves, hand-to-shoulder, elbows firmly bent, making them entirely useless. When her maid first tried to do this to her, shocked, she rebelled, but help was procured, and she was restrained. Wearing such an arrangement, she is almost entirely helpless, having to be fed her meals like a baby and being unable to do such simple tasks as open a door or even stand unaided (for wearing such encumbering clothes, one would need some support). Instead, for this active and independent woman to do anything, absolutely anything, she has to call on her maid for support.

Except that even that is impossible now, for lodged in her mouth and buckled firmly behind her head is a large gag fronted by a panel on which, in pretty embroidery, it says ‘Silence is golden’. At most all she can do is grunt and groan, but since that is frowned upon in this insane place, instead Suzie just stays silent and still, fearing the punishment that may come from breaking one of the myriad and ridiculous rules that plague this place.

Nor are the arm restraints, the corset and the gag the only restraints that this lady of leisure is forced to endure. Her feet have been forced into a ridiculous pair of white leather boots with heels of ten centimetres and her stocking-covered ankles are linked by a sturdy chain of twenty centimetres “to ensure ladylike gait”. No one can see these of course, nor can they see the most humiliating item of her attire. This is not a restraint but instead a large adult nappy. She only wears it as a precaution: when she has to go, undressing for the toilet is no speedy process and being gagged and trammelled, if there is no servant present, she often struggles to make her needs known. Thus far, it has not been necessary, but the mere thought of a free-willed and independent young businesswoman (for in her mind, she still views herself thus, even though she knows the memories cannot be real) having to wear attire designed for infants or geriatrics, is humiliating to the core of her being.

She glances across at her companions, Petronella and Carmelita and then at the clock. It is ten to three. At three the maids will come and take them all away. In the sanctity of their bedrooms they will be offered the opportunity to use the toilet (Suzie never refuses for fear of having to actually utilise those adult nappies) and then their arms are unbound and the gloved, real appendages are fed into the dress sleeves. With the ridiculous gigot, brachial movement is still extremely limited, but the two hours between three and five, providing there are no visitors, are reserved for “ladylike crafts”. In practice, this means embroidering things, so far gags. She is given a gag with a front panel which she is then expected to embroider in accordance with the instructions propped up on a stand before her. Sometimes it is a pattern, sometimes a picture such as roses or foiliage, but more often than not it is a phrase. The one in her mouth at present says ‘Silence is golden’ and she has embroidered that on a couple of gags already, it being by far the most popular. But there are others. Sometimes it is ‘Property of…’ and then a name. Always a man’s name. Many husbands like their wives to wear such a gag. But there has also been ‘Females should be seen and not heard’, ‘God blesses a quiet house’ or perhaps the Biblical ‘Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak’. It is humiliating in a way, but far less dull that merely sitting there silent and helpless.

And at the academy one is always silent or helpless or both. Usually both, but, for an hour before bed she is allowed to converse with her fellow students. Her arms are restrained for this of course (after all, they are not needed), this time not in the gigot sleeves but instead a single glove that fastens them behind the back, palm-to-palm. It is painful and totally demobilising but said to improve posture. Whatever. Trammelled thus, she can get to know her fellow sufferers, except that they, not being plagued by false memories, revel in their situation and feel great pity for those lowly women who go around broad-waisted, ungagged and with free arms. Their lives are narrow and dull; both have never left the town and look forward only to marriage and a chance to wear the latest fashions. Still, it breaks the monotony.

The door opens, and, to her surprise, Madam Rossiter enters. Suzie is surprised. She glances at the clock; still five minutes to three and, besides, their teacher never comes to change their attire. Why is she here? The mystery is soon revealed.

“Girls, I have news for you. Ladylike Crafts is cancelled for today as we have guests coming for dinner. Doctor Lowe is joining us, and he has invited Carmelita’s fiancé, Mr. Macauley, and his medical colleague, Doctor Potter, who has recently returned from a professional trip overseas. Therefore, you shall all be changing into your finest evening dresses to mark the occasion.”

Although sad that she wouldn’t get the opportunity to use her hands freely, Suzie was happy at this announcement. Visitors! Surely that should break the monotony a little!

Part 2

The Goddess Provides, Officially: Chapter 9 & Epilogue

Chapters 7-8


Chapter 9

Chaos reigned in the Ankhkhaf house! Meryetamun Ankhkhaf fainted, and from her daughter Heni’s mouth erupted an awful sound, something between a scream and a wail and, when she had done that, she lunged for her potted sister and had to be restrained by her father. Lord Nebet turned on his son and bellowed, “Hapu! I demand an explanation!” whilst Teo clapped her hands in glee and hugged her mistress.

It was a full ten minutes before things calmed down.

When they did, the talk was sober and serious.

“Hapu, it is not possible. She is a potgirl! You cannot marry a potgirl!”

“Why not, Father? Lots of men in noble families have potwives. Your own grandfather on your father’s side had two, as did Mother’s dad.”

“Yes, but that is different.They were potted after marriage, after childbirth. Senisonbe here has already undergone the procedure.”

And she is promised to the temple,” added Unasankh Ankhkhaf, “and that is a sacred vow that we cannot renege on.”

“And you both promised to honour my proposal if I made it.”

“To Hentmereb, Hapuneseb, I promised to honour your proposal to Hentmereb!”

“But sir, I never mentioned Hentmereb. I merely promised to propose to your daughter, Miss Ankhkhaf. That could be Heni or Seni.”

“He has a point, Unasankh,” said Lord Nebet, “although, promise or not, I cannot allow it. The fact is Hapu, you are our only child and the Nebets are an ancient and noble line. I require you to produce an heir and, charming though Miss Seni may be, she is clearly unable to do so. Therefore, I must veto this union on those grounds alone.”

“But Father, if that is your only objection, then you should have no fear! Miss Senisonbe could produce an heir for me. When we were talking, she explained that, as part of the potisation process, the eggs in her ovaries were removed and frozen for future fertilisation as, in the temple of Isis, the semen of the priests is matched with the eggs of the temple potgirls and surrogate mothers – young pious poor girls who want to attain favour with the goddess – birth them before giving them to the temple. They become the next generation of priests. So why not, instead of a priest, my seed could be used and, providing we can find a suitable surrogate, our children can be birthed?”

“I’ll act as a surrogate for my beloved mistress,” shouted out Teo, before remembering her place and shutting up again.

Hapu looked at his father as if to say, ‘Well then?’ and Lord Nebet shrugged. “If that is the case, then… then I have no objections. Potisation is an ancient and noble Egyptian custom and, if my son and the girl are happy, and if you too Unasankh, have no objections about marrying a daughter into the Nebet clan, then why should I stand in your way?”

“Lord Nebet, I am honoured to have a daughter be considered worthy to become a Nebet, but what of the Temple of Holy Isis? I made a sacred vow and that cannot be broken.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Unasankh; I know the head priest at that temple well and, between you and me, if we grease his palm enough, he’ll find a way around the vow. Indeed, I’ve heard of it before; if one daughter cannot make it for whatever reason, then they’re always happen to accept another.”

“Noooooo!!” cried Heni and her mother in unison, collapsing on the floor together.

But Unasankh Ankhkhaf was a changed man. He had a daughter marrying into the Nebet family, he could see the joy on her face, and he could still retain his pious standing in the temple. “Although I must admit that this is something of a surprise and unexpected turn of events, Hapuneseb Nebet, I accept your proposal to my daughter and, Senisonbe, I will allow you to wed.”

The torches flickered and the smell of frankincense wafted through the balmy night air. The sound of ululating womenfolk drew louder and louder until it stopped and a knock sounded on the great, carved door.

“Enter!” ordered Hapuneseb, heir to the noble and ancient house of Nebet.

The door opened and a pair of servants entered, carrying a veiled object on a silver tray between them. They laid it down on the carved wooden table at the end of the bed, bowed, and then departed, carefully closing the great wooden door behind them.

When they had gone, Hapuneseb walked over to the object and, carefully removed the embroidered piece of white silk that covered it.

In doing so he revealed a beautiful potgirl, with large chocolate-coloured eyes and the most captivating smile this side of the Sinai Desert.

Smiling, he bent down and carefully lifted her up and carried her into the bed itself. Then he removed his silken wedding robes to reveal his rampant member. Sitting down on the bed, he opened his legs wide and then picked up to potgirl and, lovingly kissed her on the lips. She reciprocated and groaned in bliss. Then, carefully, he positioned his tool over the aperture in the clay that revealed her womanly channel and said, “Seni, my darling wife, I love you with all my heart!”

“Officially?” she asked him with a grin in-between her panting.

“Officially,” he replied, before lowering himself deep within her.

Epilogue – Scenes from a Marriage

Hapu lay on the bed, his baby daughter cradled in his arms. Beside them stood his wife in her pot, the look in her eyes full of maternal bliss.

Nefertiry – or Nefi for short – had been born safely only three days before. Created from Seni’s egg fertilised with Hapu’s seed and then transferred inside the womb of Teo, she had enjoyed an easy birth and the hospital had given the all-clear for her to leave the premises and enter the family home. Teo was breastfeeding her and taking care of most of her needs just as a real mother would, although they made sure that the baby spent most of her time with her biological mother who happily sang her lullabies to help her sleep. In the meantime, a new maid had been hired to see to Seni’s needs to give the exhausted Teo a break.

After Nefi had drifted off, Hapu lifted his eyes to those of his beloved wife and smiled. She smiled back and then whispered, “Darling, we need to talk.”

“What is it?”

“What are we to do about Teo? She has done so much for us; how can we ever repay her?”

“She has not asked for any repayment and she tells me that she is perfectly happy.”

“She tells me the same, Hapu, but I know that she is lying. I am a woman after all. She has needs, we all do, and little Nefi here has awoken them.”


“Sexual needs. Maternal needs. Like I said, she is a woman, and an attractive one at that.”

Hapu had noticed the same thing, of course, but he had wisely never mentioned it. It does not do to mention to your wife that you are transfixed by the shape of her maid’s arse, particularly when she does not have an arse of her own.

“She should marry then. She has had plenty of suitors and we would provide a suitable dowry.”

“She will not. I ordered her to and she refused. Our family took her in as a young girl; we played together as children, and she has made a vow dedicating her life to looking after me. She never agreed with me undergoing potisation; it really upset her, and she promised that she would always be by my side. I have told her that she should not feel beholden but she is stubborn. She will not marry, no matter who comes knocking.”

“Then there is nothing we can do.”

“But there is something, Hapu.”


His wife looked at him, her eyes tracing every inch of the body that she loved so much, and she smiled. “You,” she whispered softly.


“You’re a man, and men, like women, have needs. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your eyes following her around the room, fixing on her bum or breasts. Like I said earlier, she’s an attractive woman, and men want an attractive woman to hold and caress.”

“Darling, there is only one woman in my life… or at least, there was until little Nefi here came along! And I love her because she has come from you. You, Seni, you are the one I love, with all my heart, the only one I have ever and will ever love.”

“I know that darling, but…”

“But nothing! If I’d have wanted a full-bodied girl to squeeze and caress then I’d have married your sister! You satisfy my needs, completely and totally. I need nobody else.”

“Hapu, you are many things, but a good liar is not one of them. Yes, you love me totally, I know that and always will; yes, you will always be mine. That is why I am comfortable suggesting such a thing! But that doesn’t mean that you don’t dream of a full-bodied girl from time to time. A breast to cup or buttock to stroke.”

“When I stroke the curves of your pot then I imagine…”

“Imagine no longer, Hapu, do not fantasise, live! Lie with Teo when she is ready again; satisfy her needs and give her a child. Reward her for her service to us and show her that you… we, care.”

“I couldn’t! I’d feel guilty, I’d… to go behind your back…”

“Hapu, I don’t have a back and, besides, you wouldn’t be. I would there too, in the bed with you both. Kissing your lips as you satisfied her.”

Hapu imagined the scene and, involuntarily, his member stiffened. Seni glanced down and smiled. “Do it for me, Hapu; that’s an order.”

For a number of months now, Hapu had noticed an uneasiness with his potwife whenever they talked or lay together. It was as if something was on her mind and so, one evening after congress, when she was lying alongside him in their bed, he asked her straight what it was that was bothering her.

“It is my sister. I feel guilty. She would never have had to undergo potisation if it weren’t for my actions and, I fear she must hate me for it. After all, she wanted to marry so much – or at least, to enjoy some of the benefits of marrying – and, whatever her faults, potisation is never easy. I want to speak with her and, if possible, to beg her forgiveness. She took the place in the temple that should have been mine and yet I know she was never of a religious bent. I fear that place is not suitable for her.”

“But you know that visiting temple potgirls is prohibited… if  I had known back then, not even family! No. Their job is to pray for us and to do that, they must be cut off from the world.”

“Yes, that is true, and I would never have asked before. But the fact is that their guardian can request to see them – I learned this when I was being prepared for temple life – and ever since Papa passed away so suddenly, then you became her guardian and thus can see her.”

“Even so, that is me, not you.”

“But we have money and even in Isis temples, I am sure that money can unlock some doors that otherwise would be closed, remember what your father did for mine. That temple receives a sizeable income from both the Ankhkhaf and Nebet families and they wouldn’t want to lose some of that.”

“Well, if it mean so much to you, darling, we shall go there on the morrow.”

And so, the very next morning, Hapu did carry his potwife up the steps to the esteemed Isis temple. And, once there, he requested a meeting with the high priest who, after initially refusing and stating that such a meeting would be “impossible”, then discovered, with the lubrication of a sizeable donation to the new wing that was currently being planned for a further forty potgirls, that there was in fact a loophole in the law that allowed a temple potgirl to meet with, not only their guardian but also other females so long as they too have undergone potisation.

Twenty minutes later, Heni was carried into the private chamber that the priest had found for them. There, before two smoking incense burners, she was carefully set down by the temple attendant who promptly left the three alone.

Heni looked far better than Seni had expected. She had worried about her sister being depressed and this showing in her face and demeanour. She had anticipated a torrent of abuse or even a refusal to meet with the woman and man who had caused her life to be transformed from that of a free, able-bodied young noblewoman, to an immobile, dependent religious ornament. However, to her surprise, Heni’s skin seemed to glow in the lamplight and her expression was a happy one.

“It is so good to see you sister and brother-in-law!” she exclaimed once the attendant had gone. “You really have left it too long! Please, give me a kiss.”

Hapu picked up his wife and carried her over, angling her pot so that the two sisters could embrace. Then, after putting her down again, he too kissed Heni and, to his surprise and shock, he found that as he did so, her tongue entered his mouth and explored it a little more than was proper. He withdrew and she winked at him.

“Not what you expected, eh?”

“Not quite,” replied Seni, who was both surprised and a little concerned. Had the temple sent her sister round the bend?

“You expected me to be cursing you – both of you – for putting me in here, and by that I mean in this pot and this place. You expected me to hate you, Hapu, for rejecting me and choosing her, whilst you, Seni, dearest sis, for condemning me to a life which, as you know better than anyone, is far from easy.”

“Heni, I never meant for you to be hurt, I…”

“Shhh, leave it. I bear you no ill will… either of you. True, I did find it hard, especially the potisation. Why would anyone ever want to have half their body chopped off and be entombed within a vase for the rest of their lives, unable to do the slightest thing for oneself? True, I have heard that there are some pretty messed up individuals who do want it, some sort of weird fetish or something, but, trust me, I was never one of them. Yeah, your names were mud for many weeks with me, and I was pretty low, let me tell you. I mean, my whole future had been taken from me and I was being transformed into some pious ornament whose only function is to pray endlessly until she leaves this world, after which she’ll be reborn in the next, just as helpless and miserable. However, after I arrived here, well, my outlook changed.”

“It did?” the couple said in tandem.

“Yeah, it did. This place wasn’t what I expected. In all honesty, I don’t think it would have suited you at all, Seni.”

“But I was always the more religious one of us.”

“Religion ain’t got nothing to do with it, sis.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Look, which goddess is this temple dedicated to?”

“Isis, of course.”

“And what are her attributes?”

“Well, she’s the mother goddess, the sky goddess, fertility, magic, and miracles…”

“Precisely, fertility and magic. Which means, well, depending on how you translate it, that this place is the place to come for a bit of magic or a miracle. And how the priests translate that is, well, how priests translate these things everywhere: in the way that brings in the most profit for the temple.”

“Heni, how can you say such things? That’s blasphemous!”

“Seni, I’m a temple potgirl; I can say whatever the hell I want and I say them because I live here and I know what goes on. Before I came, I thought it would all be a lifetime of standing on a shelf and reciting prayers like you did in the shrine room for all those months. However, the reality is very different indeed.”

“In what way?”

“Isis enables miracles, right, through the medium of her potgirls. And fertility is all about sex, right again? So, how does this place make its money? Basically, men – and a few women – come here to copulate with the potgirls. We’re like a holy brothel. They pay a handsome sum and then take one of us into a chamber like this one – indeed, I was in this very room only yesterday with the High Judge – and they give us a damn good spiritual probing. Men love it; a lot seem to have a potgirl fetish, the helplessness of us appeals I suppose, and so there is no shortage of takers. Plus, with a temple potgirl, not only is there no risk of pregnancy, but it is also a blessing, not a sin. See a whore and the world judges; screw a temple potgirl and you receive great boons. And not only you, us too.”

“What are you saying? This is outrageous!”

“Seni, you prude, calm down! The fact is, I have always liked men. I longed to feel a penis inside me but all that stupid no sex before marriage crap prevented it. I was horny as hell, Hapu you remember. Now though, I get as much cock as I like, all the time! On average five times a day; at festival times it can be double or triple that. I get to be probed right in the spirit constantly and I absolutely love it. Rather than sitting around dreaming of it at home, today I am living it. Of course, I wish I still had arms and legs and that, some of these acolytes have no sense of rhythm, but one can’t have everything. The fact is Hapu, if we’re honest, me and you would never have worked; you were looking for true love; I’m just wanton. But you fucked up, you know, big boy, you fucked up big time.”


“Well, if you’d have married me, then we could have screwed as often as we liked, full-bodied, which would have been something, and with Seni as a temple potgirl, you could have taken her as much as you wanted too. But this way, while you can still enjoy us both to your heart’s content (so long as you pay the temple fee, of course) it will only ever be as potgirls. You lose out; never mind.”

Seni was incredulous. “So, it’s all about sex. All you think about is sex?”

“Not all, darling sis. A lot, yes, but not all. The fact is that we’re a community here. Men are all well and good for fucking, but I wouldn’t want to have to live with them and talk to them all day long, particularly if it were just the one. But here, there are forty of us, and, every evening after closing, aside from the one that the high priest chooses, we are all placed in a circle where we can chat, share gossip and compare each other’s news. You get to find out a hell of a lot in here you know; all the rich and powerful come in. I bet you didn’t know that the Pharaoh has just forced his former favourite concubine Isetnofret – yes, the same one who turned him against Queen Merytaten-tasherit – to undergo potisation, because he suspected her of having an affair with one of his top generals. They weren’t, of course; the general was seeing another of his concubines though, but that is by the by. Old Isetnofret now sits on a shelf, her cunt locked off and inaccessible, next to the very queen she betrayed. Yes indeed, we find out everything and never go to sleep unsated. I hardly have time to pray…”


When they had left and were back in their bedroom at home, Hapu looked at his potwife and said, “So, what do you make of all that?”

Seni smiled. “Not what I expected at all, but I’m glad she’s not angry with us. She seems happy, which is what matters.”

“I suppose so, although it is not what I anticipated either. Still, at least it sort-of brings a close to the tale of how we got together.”

“Yes, it does, and, because of that, I think we should celebrate.”

“Celebrate? How?”

“Fuck me like a temple potgirl, big boy! Fuck me like you’re going to get myriad blessings at the end of it!”

“But I already have, my darling, I already have,” he replied, laughing as he slipped his rigid member into her hopelessly exposed slit and met her lips with his own.


The Goddess Provides, Officially: Chapters 7-8


Chapters 5-6

Chapter 7

The following morning, Hapu arrived later than he usually did and then struggled to stay awake while Heni sat talking with him.

“What is it with you today?” she asked at last. “Am I really so boring that you need to close your eyes when I tell you about my new gown?”

“No, no,” said Hapu in-between yawns. “I don’t know what it is. I went to bed a little later than usual last night but maybe I’m coming down with something or it could be the weather. I always get tired easily when it is muggy like this.”

“Maybe. My sister couldn’t stay awake this morning at breakfast either. She said the same thing. However, she’s got an excuse; she’s a potgirl after all so her body is more sensitive to the temperature. You, on the other hand, should be more resilient.”

“Seni is tired too?”

“Yes, so you won’t be able to invite her to play Monopoly with us today and then side with her once again so that I lose.”

“To be honest, I don’t think I could stay awake for a whole game of Monopoly.”

“I know. Maybe I’m being too hard on you. Why don’t you put your head on my lap and have a little snooze… no, don’t resist, we’ll be married soon and we can do this every night…”

Hapu did actually doze off on Heni’s lap as she stroked his hair, the first act of real intimacy that he had allowed and one that had made her suspect that a proposal must surely be coming soon. When he woke up though, he made his excuses and returned home where he then slept for several hours, waking up as the sun was starting to set in the west. He then had several excruciating hours of waiting until the time when all the Ankhkhaf household retired, before dressing in black once again and making his way over the garden wall, across to the banana palm, up its trunk and in through the window. This time, when he came in, Seni was already wide awake, her dark eyes sparkling in the flickering candlelight. They did not kiss on the lips, only the forehead as friends should, although, once again, those kisses lingered far longer than was appropriate for a purely platonic relationship.

They fell into talking about Seni’s future in the temple. She told him about the training that she had received, that all potgirls were expected to memorise lengthy prayers and repeat them on behalf of the devotees who would come and leave generous donations for the priests. She told him about the room that she had visited where the potgirls lived, the ornately-carved stone shelf on which the vases with their human occupants stood. And as she spoke, tears welled in her eyes and she struggled to get her words out.

“Seni, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

“Oh Hapu,” she wept, “when I think of it… it is too terrible. I know that it is my fate, my destiny and a great, great honour, but I do not want to go there, I really don’t. To think of spending my life just standing on a shelf repeating prayers ad infinitum, with no friends, no family, no joy, no sunshine, no…”

She broke down completely and her head started to convulse as the tears flowed down her face. Without thinking, Hapu when over to her and hugged her tightly. “Don’t worry my dearest friend, it will be alright, I promise you, I’ll do something, I don’t know what but something…”

But she did not hear and instead merely cried in his arms, her tears wetting his shoulder as they soaked into his tunic.

Eventually, they dried up, the sniffling stopped and Seni whispered, “I’m alright now, truly I am. I just need to pray to the goddess more. Thank you, thank you so much, you’ve been a great help, you’re a wonderful friend, you truly are.”

Hapu stepped back and, taking out a handkerchief, wiped the tears from the young potgirl’s face. He smiled at her and she smiled back. And then, a look of absolute horror passed over her face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Seni darted her eyes to the right and he turned. No word of explanation was needed.

“I’ve been standing there for a full five minutes,” said Teo, Seni’s maid and dearest companion. “I couldn’t bear to break up your embrace, no matter how wrong it may be.”

“How did you know?” asked Seni. “You normally sleep at this time.”

“Hmm, let me think. Ever since he started coming to this house, there’s been a distinct change in you. A good one, it is true, but a change nonetheless. Before you were despondent and sad; now you seem full of the joys of spring. And then this morning you struggle to wake up and spend most of the day dozing, whilst he arrives at the door looking like the walking dead and spending half the day snoring on your sister’s lap? Then I realised what was going on. Then I knew that, despite your piety, what was causing the change in outlook was not excitement at your imminent entry into the temple when that trollope gets married.”

“Teo! I’ve told you before; she’s my sister! You shouldn’t say things like that!”

“A true sister would look after you and love you better, but she only cares about herself. You too young man, you Casanova! One Ankhkhaf daughter is not enough for you; you want to seduce both of them!”

“It’s not like that, I…”

“I know exactly what you are! I’ve heard of men like you; men with an obscene fascination for potgirls. Will you have the same done to her sister once you’ve wed her? Not that it’d be a bad thing mind, it might bring that cow down a peg or two, but I’ll not have you hurting my mistress, no, that I will not! Coming in here so you can kiss and do worse to a totally defenceless and innocent young potgirl, you…”

“Teo, it is not like that at all!” whispered Seni. “As you are my dearest friend, believe me! Hapu has had ample opportunity to do whatever he wants to me multiple times and he has acted the gentleman throughout. Apart from anything, I think he is too shy to molest a girl, that is one of the reasons why he is such an absolute darling, but there are many more. He is kind, caring, he listens to me and he knows exactly what to say!”

“By Holy Mother Isis, this is worse than I thought! You are in love, Miss Seni, you are totally besotted with him!”

“No! No! We’re not in love, we’re just friends!”

“Yes, Miss Teo, just friends!”

“Just friends my arse! I can see it in your eyes… and his. By Ra! You do not even realise it yourselves, but you are smitten, the pair of you! That is so terrible, so awful… and yet… yet so wonderful at the same time! Oh Miss Seni, this changes everything! I am so happy for you, you who deserve joy more than anyone and who has continually been afflicted by hardships! This is marvellous news, I feel like dancing with joy, I…”

“Shh! You’ll wake the others!”

Teo quietened down immediately and nodded her head. “No, we can’t have that; it would solve nothing. I came here today to expose you and get you banished from this house, but seeing the joy in my mistress’s eyes, I cannot do that now. How this will end I can’t say, probably in tears, but I shall not be the one to force the hand of fate. However, you need to promise me, Mr. Nebet, that you will not mistreat nor do ill by my mistress, for if you do, I shall hunt you down and kill you, honestly I shall, for she is my life and…”

“Miss Teo, I promise, I promise! Have no fear, I could never do ill to her, she is too precious to me.”

“Very well, and promise me one more thing too.”

“What is that?”

“That you shall not marry Miss Heni. You do not love her and she does not… can not love you, and if you two were together whilst Miss Seni spent her life in the temple alone, then it would break her heart. And I would have to kill you, did I mention that?”

“Teo, you cannot expect Hapu to…” Seni interjected, but Hapu was resolved.

“No, I promise. I shall not wed Heni, but I need to keep up the courtship as it is the only thing that allows us to be together.”

Teo nodded and then approached to kiss her mistress on the cheek. “Go girl,” she whispered, smiling, “seek happy nights for happy days!” and then, with a passing glance at Hapu, she left them all alone.

In the candlelight, Hapu gazed at Seni and Seni gazed at Hapu. “We’re not smitten are we?” he said.

“Not at all. Just friends.”

“Just friends.”



And then, he leaned his head in towards hers and, cradling the back of her hair with his hand, pressed his lips against her. Again, their mouths opened and their tongues explored one another intimately. This time though, she did not withdraw.

Chapter 8

And so Hapu entered a period of absolute bliss. By day he would visit one Ankhkhaf sister, pretend to court her and be interested in her, whilst at night he would creep into the room of the other and they would talk for hours with the connivance of her maid. They would talk and they would kiss but they never did any more, even though Hapu’s rod ached to do so and, the moment he got into his bed, he would bring himself to ecstasy within seconds, the image of Seni’s heavenly face hovering before him in his mind’s eye.

Some days, Heni would agree to Seni being brought down to join them and she would stand there in her pot whilst they drank tea or played a game and, whenever Heni’s back was turned, she would wink at Hapu and they would both smile at the secret that they shared.

But even though the period was like a perfect summer’s day, over it hung a cloud. At the back of both of their minds was the awareness that it was only temporary, that it could not last and that the ending would be cruel, for it would mean Hapu unable to visit the Ankhkhaf residence and, after Heni’s marriage, Seni being sentenced to this life and the afterlife in the gloomy confines of the Isis temple.

And then, one day most unexpectedly, the clouds broke and the rain gushed down in torrents.

Bleary-eyed, Hapu knocked on the door of the Ankhkhaf residence. As usual, a servant let him in and showed him to the sitting room. As usual, Heni was sitting there waiting for him, a smile on her face, wearing a revealing and expensive gown. Unlike usual, next to her sat her dad and, next to Mr. Ankhkhaf sat someone else.

“Good morning, Hapuneseb,” said Unasankh Ankhkhaf.

“Good morning, Hapu,” said his own father.

“Dad… err… Mr. Ankhkhaf… g-g-good morning.”

“Please sit, Hapuneseb,” continued Unasankh Ankhkhaf. “Now, I know that seeing us here today is not what you expected; instead you were looking forward to more time together with my daughter Hentmereb here. However, that is why we need to talk with you today.”

“Yes Hapu. You’ve been courting with Miss Ankhkhaf for more than a month now and, if you continue visiting this house without making a marriage proposal, then it will become questionable in terms of propriety and people will begin to talk. Now I know that you have always been a trifle shy around young ladies, but a month is more than enough to know if you are attracted or not and, what is more, the festival of Sokar is almost upon us, recognised since ancient times as the ideal time for a a wedding to take place. So, I must ask you to make a decision, son, and, I must say, Miss Ankhkhaf is certainly a charming and well-bred lady whom, if I were your age, I would not hesitate to propose to.”

“Lord Nebet, you are too kind!”

“Well, Hapu?”

Hapu sat there. He looked from his father to Heni, from Heni to her father and from Mr. Ankhkhaf back to his dad. This was the moment of truth; this was when it would all end, when the greatest friendship of his life would be destroyed and only an abyss of misery could be seen before him. He had promised never to marry Heni – a girl whom he would have stopped seeing after the first day under normal circumstances – and he would keep that promise, but to do so would mean that his name would be mud to the Ankhkhaf family and that Heni would marry someone else and Seni would be taken from him into the temple forever. He pictured his beloved, entombed in her pot on that dark and dusty shelf amongst all the others, chanting prayers for all eternity, that joyful smile and sparkling eyes dimming with a crushing and hellish life. No! No, he could not let that happen! Yet what could he do? One couldn’t marry a potgirl after all, could one… could one?

He turned to Unasankh Ankhkhaf. “Sir, if I am to understand you correctly, you desire me to marry your daughter?”

“Nothing would make me happier, Hapuneseb.”

“And Father, if I am to understand you correctly; you do not want me to leave this house today without proposing first to Miss Ankhkhaf.”

“That is correct, Hapu.”

“So be it. I shall do it, but under one condition. I would like the whole family gathered here as I do it.”

“That is a strange request, but I shall honour it, Hapuneseb.” Unasankh Ankhkhaf clicked his fingers and the servant waiting by the door came over. “Man! Bring my wife here and also Miss Senisonbe!”

“Yes sir.”

Around a minute later, Mrs. Ankhkhaf came into the room and, a confused look upon her face, sat down on the couch beside her daughter. Soon after that, Teo entered carrying Seni in her pot. She laid her down carefully on the small table by the couch and then stood back looking as bemused as the lady of the house. Hapu stood up and addressed the room:

“Today my father and Mr. Ankhkhaf have asked me if I am prepared to marry Miss Ankhkhaf and that, if she accepts, they will too. I am willing to marry her. Therefore, I have brought you all here so that you may witness my proposal and her response.”

Then, turning to the small table by the couch, he went down on one knee and said quietly yet firmly, “Senisonbe Ankhkhaf, do you agree to become my lawfully wedded wife?”

Seni’s eyes lit up. “I do,” she replied, tears of joy running down her face.


Chapter 9 & Epilogue

The Goddess Provides, Officially: Chapters 5-6


Chapters 3-4

Chapter 5

Hapu continued to visit the Ankhkhaf house every day, causing his mother and father to start making preparations on the quiet. He would usually ask to play a game and get Heni to include her potted sister, but as the elder sibling was now starting to get a little jealous – and was expecting a little more intimate time with her lover – she would often think of reasons not to include her and Hapu knew that he had to be careful so he did not push the matter. He did, however, always manage to see her, if only fleetingly, making sure that he drank lots of tea so that, after an hour or so, he was in need of the toilet. Ducking into the shrine room after one such visit – and after being denied Seni’s presence in the sitting room for three straight days – he kissed his friend on the forehead and then whispered to her, “This is awful! I really want to see you but she keeps making excuses.”

“She’s getting suspicious, Hapu. We’ll have to stop meeting.”

“But that would be awful! You’re the dearest female friend I’ve ever had and the thought of coming here and not seeing you is too terrible to contemplate. Isn’t there another way?”

Seni closed her chocolate-coloured eyes for a moment so that it looked as if she were asleep. Then a wide smile spread across her face and she opened them again. “I’ve got it! The window in the shrine room is left open every night by Teo so a breeze flows through and I don’t overheat. If you climb over the back wall into the garden, then it is right above the banana palms. Climb the one underneath it and sneak in. No one is awake between eleven and seven, and this room is on the opposite side of the house to all the bedrooms so, as long as we are quiet, we can talk to our hearts content!”

“Really?! Then I shall come, tonight! I cannot wait!”

“Me too!”

Hapu left and returned to his fiancee with a smile spread across his face. “I suppose you want to play a game again,” she said with a sulky pout on hers.

“Not at all. I was thinking that maybe a stroll around the garden might be in order, if you’d like to, of course.”

“Like to? I’d love it! I know some nice bushes that we could sneak behind where no one can see us and I can tickle you rotten… or more…”

And so they did go for a walk around the garden although, curiously, whilst Heni did manage to lure Hapu behind the bushes briefly, he seemed to be far more interested sitting on the very public bench by the fountain that overlooks the banana palms….

That night, dressed in black like a robber, Hapu used his climbing skills to scale the two meters or so up the wall surrounding the Ankhkhaf residence and then descend down into the moonlit garden. He silently made his way along the paths, keeping to the shadows, before heading for the large banana palm beneath the open window. He climbed the tree as quietly as he could and then squeezed himself through the narrow aperture. He was in the corridor leading to the shrine room. On tiptoes he crept down and opened the door. Inside, the candles on the shrine provided a faint, warm light and the smell of incense hung in the air. On her shelf stood Seni in her pot. Her eyes were closed and her breathing deep. Well, deep for a potgirl. He crept up to her and whispered her name. Immediately, those beautiful eyes opened and that perfect smile spread across her face. “You came!” she whispered in delight.

Chapter 6

Hapu left the shrine room as the sun was beginning to peep its sacred face over the eastern horizon. He did not want to depart, then or ever, but above the hushed sounds of their two voices, Seni heard a bird sing its song. “It is the lark!” she whispered. “Morning is here; you must go now!”

“No, no, it is the nightingale,” Hapu replied, but he knew and, after a promise to do the same again the following night, he was gone before any of the household members were awake.

They talked about everything, all those questions that had been burning in Hapu’s brain ever since he had met this captivating potgirl. Why had she been potted? What was it like? How did she feel? Did she regret it? What was her future? Patiently, she answered them all and, in return, he told her the answers to all her queries about his life.

She had undergone potisation only six months previously, although had known for years that it would probably be her fate. “It is customary for families of standing like mine to pot a daughter and send her to the Temple of Isis. It guarantees good luck, standing and respect. The only question for our house was which one of us would have the honour.”

“I understand that. If I had had a sister, she may well have undergone potisation too; as it was, I am the only child. But why you? Why not Heni?”

“Do you want the official reasons or the real ones?”

“I’ll have all of them,” replied Hapu, who simply liked listening to Seni talk far more than what she talked about.

“Well, officially, it is because I am the younger sister, thus of a slightly lower status than Heni which can count during marital negotiations. On top of that though, I have always been the more pious and responsible and so I was deemed more suited to the role.”

“That’s the story I heard from her, but that’s terrible! Like you are being punished for being a better person than she!”

“Officially potisation is an honour, not a punishment. People respect me more because of it and Heni is jealous of me, not the other way round… officially.”


“Indeed. But there were other factors at play here, never openly stated, but far more influential. The first was that our father had two wives; my mother and Heni’s mother. And Heni’s mum, Aunt Meryetamun, is both the first wife and, crucially, still alive. My mum died giving birth to me.”

“Oh, Seni!” cried Hapu, trying to imagine what life would be like as a child without a mum. “Our goddess Shai has dealt you a rough hand…”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down; we don’t want them waking up. Yes, I suppose I have, although never having had a mum, I’ve never missed her, although countless times I have imagined what it would be like. Aunt Meryetamun was never bad with me; indeed, we get on very well, but she naturally favours Heni and when the potisation issue came to the table, there was no one to argue my side or, officially, to push for giving the great honour to Heni. So, that was one unacknowledged reason, but there is also another: Heni has always been the pretty one and it is well-known that a pretty face can attract a good husband. So, Papa made the choice, and I got the great honour while Heni got you.”

“Well, you’re wrong on two counts there: firstly, I’m not engaged to Heni yet and, secondly, you’re far prettier than she is!”

“And you’re full of lies, Hapu! I know I’m the plain one; Heni is gorgeous; she has a beautiful face and a tempting, curvy figure. Now, I don’t even have a figure, but when I did it was nothing special, just straight up and down, whilst my face is just everyday and normal.”

“Well, I must prefer everyday and normal girls then.”

They looked at one another with the unsaid allegation that he had just transgressed an unseen red line into a dangerous place. “And, to continue what I was saying, Heni has got you. After all, why would you keep on visiting here every single day if you were not thinking of marriage? If you did not propose now, then it would be most irregular and could cause both of you great shame and loss of face.”

Silence fell upon the room and this time Hapu did not transgress the boundary. Instead, he changed the subject: “So, tell me what it was like, being potted I mean?”

“The short answer is that there is not much to tell. I had the process explained to me in detail beforehand, so I can give you a medical explanation – what is removed, how infection is avoided, how the pot is fitted and so on – but, in all honesty, I saw nothing of it first-hand. I remember the great ceremony in the Isis temple where I shall later live, the incense, the chanting, the fine robes and headdress that I had to wear which made me feel like Queen Merytaten-tasherit. And then, I remember going to the inner sanctum and drinking the sacred tea, but after that, I naturally blacked out. My sleep was dreamless – some girls have vivid visions and dreams, but I can’t recall any – and when I woke up, I was like this. The tea did not keep me drugged, of course, that was done in the hospital over the week or so that I was out cold. When I awoke I had already been taken home and so when I opened my eyes I saw the view before me now: this shrine room. Unlike some girls I had no complications,so I just had to adjust to my new state; not the easiest thing in the world, but I’d had training which helped a little.”

“Heni mentioned that. She still has to undergo it she says. Something about having her arms immobilised behind her back.”

“Yes, and she absolutely hates it! Since the age of twelve, our arms were trained to accept the monoglove, a kind of leather sleeve that keeps them immobile behind your back – very soon they deaden and you can’t even feel them. It is seen as essential for future potgirls, as it gets you used to not being able to use them, and so become dependent on others to feed you and help you with the toilet and turn the pages in a book, and so on. It was embarrassing at first, but as all girls of standing undergo it, I didn’t mind that much. It was normal. And for those girls who are not destined for a vase, then it is said to improve posture which it probably does since it makes you thrust your breasts out and keep your back arched. Preferable for marriage, I’d say. But has she mentioned the legbinders?”

Hapu just shook his head.

“Oh, those were similar leather pouches that restrained my legs. Each leg was folded back on itself and then laced tightly into its own leather pouch. Wearing them, I could do nothing with my legs save open and close them for toilet purposes. I was usually put in a stand with two holes for each pouch that could be wheeled about by Teo. Straight after my potisation was announced, I started spending more and more time in them until, by the end, I was never out of them and could hardly remember what it was like to have legs to walk around with. Heni was meant to wear them too, to help her empathise with my situation and to encourage discipline – young ladies are not meant to wander about at will, ‘they may get into trouble’ as we were told – but she soon wheedled out of it through some heavy doe-eyed pleading. Anyway, due to that training, when I did eventually wake up as a fully-fledged potgirl, whilst it was still an almighty change to get used to, I was somewhat prepared.”

“So what is it like, living in a pot?”

“Good and bad, I suppose. The biggest problem is boredom. You can’t do anything, nothing at all, for yourself. My neck is even stiffened. I mean, I can look around, but not like before… of course half of looking is turning your chest, which is now rooted in here. If I sneeze I cannot even wipe my nose. That was a massive thing during my training – being unable to scratch itches was hell early on, especially under the binders – but you get used to it; it is part of the spiritual dimension of potisation. Unable to solve the problem yourself, like a meditating monk, you work out ways of blocking it from your mind. That works well with itches, although with snot its harder. But Teo comes around regularly to wipe my face.”

“You’ve mentioned Teo several times; is she your maid?”

“Yes, and much more. Teo is my handmaiden but also my best friend in all the world. We are like sisters: far more so, I am afraid to say, then I am with Heni. It is not that Heni and I do not get on, but instead that Teo understands me far better. I could never see her as a mere servant, she is the most beautiful and wonderful person alive! Our family took her in as a young girl and we played together as children. She has made a vow dedicating her life to looking after me and she never agreed with me undergoing potisation; it really upset her. We share everything.”

“Have you told her about my visits?”

Seni looked to one side. “No, not that. Not yet. She may try to stop it. She would fear that we may get too attached as friends and that would both poison my relationship with my sister – Heni can be prone to jealousy, I’m afraid – and cause me too much hurt when I enter the temple.”

“Why? Couldn’t I still visit you there?”

“Visit, maybe, but only as a devotee I imagine; brief and in public. We could never get to know one another like this, intimately and alone.”

Again, silence descended on the room as something unspeakable had almost been said. This time it was Seni who changed the subject:

“I was telling you about what it is like; well, the helplessness, yes, but worse than that is the boredom. I mean, what is there to do all day but just stand here? And I say ‘stand’ almost in jest! I am beholden to my sister or father or aunt to order me moved or included in family activities. I have religious programmes to occupy me, and my prayers, but one can only pray so much. That is why I enjoy your company, Hapu; it is such a refreshing change!”

“So, that’s all I am? A change from religious indoctrination?”

“No, I didn’t mean that. Even if I wasn’t potted and could walk about and do things for myself, I would still love your company. You’re the first guy I’ve ever met – not that I’ve known many in this way – who can talk to a girl on her level, who is interested in her life and does not try to dictate everything. You’re really sweet and special.”

“As are you, Seni, as are you. Even though we’ve only just met, I feel like you’re my best friend.”

“I know, it’s weird isn’t it?And yet I feel exactly the same. I’ll hate it when we can no longer talk like this, although I do hope you’ll still visit me in the temple, even if it is only to offer supplications.”

“Of course I will, although you do realise that you are providing me with every incentive I need to delay marrying your sister.”

“I know.” They giggled together as the candles on the altar flickered.

“Carry on with your tale, please.”

“So, there is the boredom and the helplessness, but those I did anticipate and was trained for. What my training did not prepare me for though, was the overheating. Covered and contained as I am, I can no longer control my body temperature easily, and so I quickly become overheated in the daytime. That is why I am usually left in here as it is the coolest room in the house, open only slightly to the shaded side, but even then Teo has to come around regularly to flannel my face with a cold cloth. It is really hard, the heat, being unable to even cool myself down.”

“Are you hot now?”

“Feel for yourself.”

He put his hand on her cheek. It was slightly warm. “Seems ok.”

“Try the other cheek,” she whispered, gazing into his eyes.

Hapu put his other hand up and then moved his face forward until he was only centimetres away from hers. “What about your lips? Are they warmer or cooler than the rest of you?”

“I can’t tell, try them too.”

He leaned forward and placed his own lips on hers. No cheeks or foreheads, lips. They met and their mouths opened involuntarily. Before they knew it, their tongues were intermingling. Then she jerked her head backwards, only as far as she could manage, but enough.

“What is it?” he asked, shocked.

“You are due to marry my sister and I will enter the temple,” she replied coolly, a tear trickling down her cheek.

They sat for a while in silence as the tear dried in the balmy night.


Chapters 7-8